


Walking in a Straight Line

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, UST, flatmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 137,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s one of the oldest stories in the book.  Two old friends have a few too many drinks, two old friends share a kiss.  Happens all the time, right?  But what happens when only one of them actually remembers it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribblecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblecat/gifts).



> This is for scribblecat, because RL can be shitty sometimes, but our little corner of the fandom is always such a joy. The title is taken from a song by one of her all time favourite bands, because I am a sap.

> _Set me on fire in the evening_  
>  _Everything will be fine_  
>  _Waking up strong in the morning_  
>  _Walking in a straight line_  
>  _Lately I’m a desperate believer_  
>  _But walking in a straight line   - “Straight Line”, Silverchair_

~*~

 

He has time to think that the bright light in the bathroom makes her eyes look even more green, then she’s grabbing two handfuls of his sweatshirt and jerking him towards her. When her mouth covers his, he stops thinking about anything apart from the fact that Emma Swan is kissing him so fiercely his legs almost go out from under him.

_Bloody hell._

Her mouth is warm and slick, her tongue curling around his as though she’s studied handbooks on how best to drive him out of his mind. His pulse is hammering almost painfully in his head and his cock, the blood roaring through his veins, fuelled by alcohol and months (fuck, who is he trying to fool, it’s been years) of gallantly pining for this woman. He brings his hands up, vaguely meaning to ease her body away from his, but all that happens is that one hand buries itself in her hair, the other planting itself firmly on her back.

“God, what am I doing?” Her throaty whisper is breathed against his jaw, and unfortunately has the effect of being doused with a bucket of iced water.

What is she doing, indeed?

Emma Swan is not only his long-time college friend and flatmate, she’s also currently enmeshed in a serious relationship with another man. She has no business kissing the living daylights out of _him_ in their apartment’s bathroom after a raucous evening of shots and trying to outdo each other with their choice of ‘bad’ music.

In his defence, he does try to put a halt to proceedings. His hand still buried in her hair, he pulls back, trying to catch her gaze with his. Her eyes are fever-bright, and he knows she will regret this in the morning, even if he won’t. “I don’t know, darling, what _are_ you doing?”

“Shut up.” She kisses him again, shifting closer, nudging him backwards until his arse hits the edge of the bathroom vanity. He’d come in here to clean his teeth before staggering off to bed, hoping to put some distance between himself and Emma’s seeming determination to match him in the flirtation stakes. She’d followed him into the bathroom, his phone in her hand, muttering something about how she hardly has any pictures of them together, then everything had gone a bit mad. He knows she’d had a fight with Walsh this morning, but this reaction seems more than a little over the top, even for her.

He’s trying very hard (poor choice of word, perhaps) to stop himself from taking advantage of the situation, but he feels as though he’s fighting a losing battle. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

She bites at his bottom lip, and he feels a jolt of raw lust tug at his groin. “I hate you sometimes.”

He tries to be offended, but it’s proving difficult when her hands are exploring his arse. “What?”

“Strutting around like God’s freaking gift with that face and that voice and being all sweet and funny and God damned charming.” Her voice is muffled against his neck, and when he feels the scrape of her teeth on his skin, he can’t swallow back the low groan that rumbles up from his chest. “I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with all of that?”

He’s beyond confused now, and the copious amount of alcohol they’ve consumed certainly isn’t helping. Deciding to inject a note of humour into the conversation (they’ve always communicated best that way), he bumps his nose against hers, more than a little overwhelmed by the scent and feel and everything of her. “Are you saying that you _like_ me, Swan?”

His attempt at levity backfires. She leans into him, her breasts pressing softly against his chest, one hand leaving his arse to grope for something on the vanity beside him. “I’m saying I  _really_ hate seeing women at our breakfast table the morning after you’ve fucked them.” Her voice is thick with emotion and vodka, never a good combination, but he still can’t help the little thrill of excitement that goes through him. “ _Hate_ it. You and me, though, we’re a bad idea, ‘cause we’re  _friends_  and I have Walsh and, _fuck,_ my timing just sucks so much.”

It suddenly dawns on him (perhaps he can be forgiven for being slow on the uptake, given the fact that his reflexes have been muffled by lust and vodka) that she has thought about him - _them_ \- in a manner not quite befitting their ‘just good friends’ status _._ Before he can speak (he still feels like he’s two steps behind, she’s always been the only one who can reduce him to a blithering heap of silence), she has his phone in her hand again, and her lips are a whisper away from his. “I’ve messed things up now, I’m sorry.”

Then she’s kissing him again, her mouth both soft and urgent, letting him taste the desire shimmering beneath the surface, making his whole body clench with an answering hunger that shocks him with its intensity.

He’s not about to demur a second time. 

He kisses her mouth, then her throat, tasting the furiously fluttering pulse just below her jaw. Her right hand slides underneath his sweatshirt to stroke his back, and hunger slams through him, urging him to go further, faster, pull her into him and let her feel exactly what she’s doing to him. When she sighs softly, pressing her hips against his with clear intent, he blindly finds her mouth with his once again, kissing her until they’re both panting and clutching at each other, holding each other up against the bloody bathroom vanity.

The sudden flash of his camera phone going off brings him back to his senses, and just in the nick of time, it seems. It’s as though the fight suddenly goes out of her, and she sags into his arms, his phone dangling dangerously from her fingertips.

“Okay, Swan,” he tells her as he liberates his phone and wraps one arm around her back to keep her from stumbling. Seriously, what the hell is going on here? She’s always been able to drink him under the table, so this early capitulation to the power of vodka is most unlike her. “I think it’s time you went to bed,” he says with an effort, doing his best to steady his shaking voice. “We’ve both got work tomorrow, remember?”

She mumbles something that sounds like agreement, and he tells himself that he’s relieved. His heart is still pounding, his breath still coming short. For all the times he’s imagined kissing Emma Swan, his imagination has never quite managed to encompass the glorious reality. Feeling as though he’s just sprinted around the block several times, he slides his phone onto the bathroom vanity, then decides not to bother forcing his flatmate to brush her teeth or wash her face. Best to get two closed bedroom doors between them before he does something incredibly foolish like listening to his body rather than his head.

A moment later, he’s managed to wrangle her into her bedroom, profoundly grateful that they’d both dressed for an elegant evening of shots and bad music at home. What she’s wearing resembles pyjamas enough that he has no hesitation in simply pulling back her covers (Duckling sheets? Really? Far less hardcore than he’d expected for a tough bail bonds woman, his glorious blonde Valkyrie) and gently coaxing her into bed. He takes another moment to put a glass of water beside her bed (he has the feeling that tomorrow morning is going to be most unpleasant for her), then flicks off her bedside lamp, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur in his own home. “Goodnight, Swan.”

He reaches the door before she speaks, and when she does, it’s all he can do is turn on his heel and retrace his steps. “Killian?”

“Yes?”

Her voice is small and rough, and it makes his heart ache. “Sorry.”

“Don’t fret, love.” He fumbles for the doorknob, forcing himself to take that final step out into the hallway. “I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll wager we’ll both need a strong coffee.”

There’s no answer, and again he tells himself that he’s relieved.

He returns to the bathroom, his head all over the place as he perfunctorily cleans his teeth, splashing his face with cold water for good measure. He briefly considers a cold shower (God, those kisses) but it’s November and he’s not in the mood for hypothermia. A few minutes later, he’s in his own bedroom, the door firmly shut against temptation, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

 _Well_ , he thinks wearily, torn between confusion and elation.  _This is quite the interesting development._

He’s wanted Emma Swan from the moment they met on campus, introduced by his friend David, who was dating one of _her_ friends, Mary Margaret.  He’s been ridiculously, silently in love with her for almost as long.  He’s a man who believes in going after what he wants, but he also likes to think of himself as a man of honour.  Not once in the history of their friendship have they both been single and in the same city at the same time, and he had long resigned himself to the fact that close friends was all they’ll ever be.

Mind you, being Emma Swan’s close friend is quite something, and six months ago, when David had told him that he and Mary Margaret had two spare rooms in their converted loft apartment and that Emma was taking the other one, he’d jumped at the chance to torture himself on a daily basis.

He had been so sure he could handle it. Emma was hot and heavy with Walsh, after all (they’d been dating for almost a year) and would surely just continue to roll her eyes at his outrageous flirting. They’d set the rules for their friendship a long time ago, and he certainly wouldn’t be in danger of embarrassing himself by confessing his love for her over scrambled eggs one morning.

Even now, his powers of self-deception astound him, because it turned out that he was in danger of doing just that every bloody morning.

And now he’s lying here in his bedroom, with Emma sleeping down the corridor, and he thinks he can still taste her kiss despite the liberal application of his favourite spearmint toothpaste. What the hell had she been thinking? They’ve gotten to that level of plastered together many times before, but it had never ended with them in a heated clinch in the bloody bathroom. Rolling over, he punches his pillow and wills himself to fall asleep. The faster he falls asleep, the faster morning will come, and the quicker he can get through Emma telling him that she’s sorry and it was all a mistake and would never happen again.

Best laid plans and all that, because despite the fact he suspects the level of vodka in his body would be enough to fell a stone donkey, it takes a very long time for him to fall asleep. Perhaps he should stop replaying kissing Emma Swan on a loop in his head, but if tonight is going to be a one-time thing (and he fears it will be just that), then surely he’s allowed to torture himself a little while longer.

He punches his pillow again. Perhaps he should have had that cold shower after all.

~*~

 _This is_ , Emma thinks as she lies very still and wishes for death to claim her,  _definitely one of the worst hangovers she’s ever had._  God, what the hell had they been drinking last night? She remembers wine with their dinner, then David and Mary Margaret had gone out for coffee and cake (date night, no other flatmates invited, thanks very much), then she and Killian had set up camp in the living room with the stereo and -

_Ugh._

Vodka.

She squints at the old-fashioned alarm clock on her bedside table (a gift from Mary Margaret, that girl is hopelessly retro) but the hands and numbers made no sense. Her room is still vaguely dark, so it takes her a moment to notice the glass of water beside the clock.  _I don’t remember doing that,_  she muses, but she isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. Struggling up into a half-sitting position, she drinks the whole glass in one go, gulping it down as though it’s a miracle cure for the pounding in her head.

It makes her feel a little better (at least her throat doesn’t hurt any more) but it sure doesn’t make her feel like leaping out of bed and facing the day. Instead, she flops back onto her bed, trying to piece together the night before. Fuck, what the hell had she been thinking, getting trashed on a Thursday night _? Stupid Jones and his vodka shots and his cringe worthy 1980’s CD collection_ , she thinks with a scowl at her ceiling. He should know by now that she can’t resist his ‘I can find a worse song than you can’ game.

God, her head is pounding, but she’s pretty sure she has a 10am appointment at work, so there’s no way to call in sick without messing a heap of people around. She should  _not_ have been drinking last night, not after she took those antihistamines before dinner for her allergies, but Walsh had been a dick about cancelling their date at the last moment (not for the first time) and she’d wanted to forget that being with him was starting to be harder than being single.

She closes her eyes again, hoping to ease the dull throbbing in her head.  At least her allergies seem to have subsided. _How the hell does someone get hay fever in November?_ She grumbles to herself for a few more moments, then decides to get her shit together and accept the inevitable. She’s not dying, and she needs to go to work today.

Sighing, she slowly emerges from beneath the bed covers (it seems she went to bed in her gym clothes last night) and sits on the edge of the mattress for a few minutes. When she’s relatively sure that she’s not going to throw up, she gets to her feet, and slowly gathers up her bathrobe and clean underwear. What doesn’t kill her might only make her stronger, but a hot shower and hot coffee will go a long way towards making her feel human again.

It’s still early, but the shower stall is misted with the remnants of someone else’s visit, and she feels a mild sense of surprise push through her muddled head. David and Mary Margaret always use the en suite attached to their bedroom (there’s two of them, it only made sense that they have the biggest bedroom) so that means that their resident lawyer, who is usually the last one to stagger out of his bedroom on any given morning, is already up and showered.

 _I bet he doesn’t even have a hangover, that smooth bastard._ It would be just like him to drink her under the table and then turn up as fresh as a freaking daisy the next morning, she thinks darkly. Stripping off her clothes, she steps into the shower and makes the water as hot as she can bear it, and hopes that he’s at least had the good manners to make coffee.

He has.

She smells the mouth-watering scent of his favourite espresso blend as soon as she opens the bathroom door, and she pads slowly towards the kitchen, tightening the belt of her bathrobe as she walks.  The almost-scalding water on the back of her neck has almost managed to make her feel halfway decent, but she needs a caffeine hit like she needs air.  Her hair is still wrapped in its usual towel turban, but they’ve long stopped standing on ceremony in this house. “I hope you left some of that coffee for  _me_ , Jones,” she announces as she steps into the kitchen. “It’s _your_ fault I feel this bad, you know.”

There’s a clatter of coffee mugs as he starts, turning to look at her with those impossibly blue eyes. He’s already half-dressed for the office, his customary black waistcoat over a white business shirt, his tie and suit jacket draped over the back of one of the kitchen table chairs. “Uh, morning, Swan.”

She narrows her gaze at him. Just as she suspected, he’s showing no sign of their night of vodka and loud singing that’s still scratching at her brain stem. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

He gives her an oddly shy smile which, to her despair, sends a tiny flurry of butterflies through the pit of her stomach.  _Shit, not this again._ She really thought she’d managed to put all that behind her over the last few months, but apparently not.  She’s not the first person to stupidly fall in love with one of her best friends (who only has eyes for other women, plural) and she won’t be the last but sometimes it feels like there are burrs under her skin when he smiles at her.

And yet she’s the sucker who agreed to live in the same apartment with him.

He slides a mug of coffee in front of her as she drops into the nearest wooden chair, then adds two aspirin and a large glass of water. “ _Thank you,”_ she breathes as she reaches for them with faintly unsteady hands, but he says nothing in return. She peers up at him, but he seems in something of a rush, which is weird, considering they’re both at least an hour ahead of their usual workday schedule. “At least you could have the decency to look a  _little_ hung over, you know,” she grumbles at him as she finally reaches for her coffee. “I feel like I cracked open my skull and poured that damned vodka of yours straight into my brain.”

Leaning against the counter beside their battered espresso machine, he gives her a long, searching look, his gaze sweeping over her face. “Not my fault you can’t keep up, Swan,” he finally says before burying his nose in his own coffee mug.

There’s something in his tone that she can’t quite decipher, something unfamiliar and wary, but the coffee is hot and sweet and tastes like heaven (she can literally feel it spiking her blood) and she chalks it up to too much vodka and not enough sleep. It seems he’s only human, after all. “Where are the others?”

“Still in bed, I assume.” He refills both their mugs without her having to say a word, and she flashes him a smile of thanks. He blinks at her, his lips parting as though if to speak, then he seems to give himself a shake. “They rolled in just after midnight, so I doubt we’ll see them before their designated alarm time.”

“Midnight?” She’s impressed. “God, what time did  _I_  go to bed last night?” She looks at the refrigerator, wondering if she can stomach some toast, then decides against it. “The last thing I remember is beating you at remembering every word to that stupid Bon Jovi song.”

Killian’s coffee mug pauses halfway to his mouth. Once again, he stares at her with those ridiculously blue eyes, and she suddenly has to fight the urge to squirm in her chair. It’s like he’s literally trying to peek inside her head and, with her hangover, there’s definitely not enough room in there for anything else. “What?” she finally asks, hearing the defensive note in her own voice, and he gives her a shrug that looks way too casual to actually  _be_  casual.  “I didn’t do anything embarrassing, did I?”

“Not at all, love.” He turns his back to her, rinsing his coffee mug in the sink with unnecessary vigour, and she has to strain to hear him over the sound of the running water. “Well, I’m off.”

She shouldn’t feel disappointed (they don’t always catch the train into the city together, after all) but she is. “I can be ready in thirty minutes tops, I swear,” she says teasingly, but he only shakes his head, his smile strangely tight as he glances at her over his shoulder.

“Actually, I’ve got a lot on at work this morning, so I thought I’d take advantage of the early start.”

It’s not a real brush-off by any means, so why does she feel like it is?  “Sure, okay. Thanks for the coffee,” she tells him as she pulls the towel from her head, running her hands through the damp strands of her hair.  _Definitely a braid today_ , she thinks, then belatedly notices that the sound of running water has stopped and Killian is snatching up his tie and jacket from the chair beside her as though he’s running late for work rather than an hour ahead of schedule. “See you tonight?”

He pauses, his gaze finally meeting hers with an intensity that has the heat unexpectedly rising in her cheeks. “Not seeing Walsh?”

The warmth in her face increases at the oddly accusing tone in his voice, and her heart sinks.  _Fuck._ It’s way too early to be dealing with this, with him and his face and the fact that despite filling her life and her bed with Walsh, she still has this  _stupid_ schoolgirl crush on someone who has made it _quite_ clear that she isn’t his type.  It’d be hard to miss the parade of brunettes through his life over the years, after all.  “Yeah, maybe.” She runs a hand through her damp hair, wondering how the hell she can be almost thirty and still so messed up in the emotional attachment department. “I guess I should let him make it up to me for cancelling our date last night.”

Again, his smile is tight and doesn’t reach his eyes, his gaze following the path her hand takes through her tangled hair. “Ah.” Draping his tie around his neck, he picks up his wallet and keys from the kitchen counter, then gives her a little nod. “I’ll most likely be going out for a drink after work myself.”

She doesn’t want to analyse the hollow feeling his words invoke.  It’s Friday night, so she guesses there will be yet another willowy brunette at their breakfast table tomorrow morning, being placated with gourmet scrambled eggs before being gently eased out of his life. “Have fun, then,” she says with her best airy wave, and his brow furrows.

“You know me, love.” He heads for the front door, tossing his parting words over his shoulder. “I always do.”

Emma listens to the front door slam behind him, then frowns at her empty coffee mug. That would have to have been the most awkward conversation she’s ever had with Killian Jones, and they’ve had quite a few. Maybe he’s not as immune to the perils of vodka as he’d have her believe.

Shaking her head, she dumps her coffee cup in the sink without rinsing it (Mary Margaret won’t be happy with her, but she doesn’t have the energy to care), and shuffles back to her room to get dressed. She’ll go to work and forget about Walsh and Killian and the unhappy fact that while her hay fever might have vanished, she seems to have acquired a pink rash around her lips and down one side of her neck. _Nothing a bit of make-up won’t fix_ , she decides, then stops dead in her tracks to stare at the debris littering the living room.

 _Oops_.

There are empty pizza boxes and CD cases strewn everywhere, and the surface of the coffee table looks suspiciously sticky with alcoholic residue, not to mention an empty bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

Wait, they ordered pizza? When did that happen?

Mentally vowing to swear off mixing antihistamines and shots, she takes a deep breath and begins to clean up, silently cursing Killian with each new CD case she almost steps on. Typical of him to contribute to this mess and then take off, then realises she’s being a little unfair. Out of the two of them, he’s always the one who cleans up and organises and makes sure there is milk and butter in the fridge and the bills are paid on time. He must really be busy at work to have left her in the lurch like this, she thinks, then she hears the sound of the master bedroom’s door opening and closing.

“Wow.” Mary Margaret comes up behind her, resting her chin on Emma’s shoulder, her short dark hair looking unfairly perfect for so early in the morning. She surveys the damage, then looks at Emma with obvious amusement. “Exactly what did the two of you get up to last night while we were out?”

“You know, I’m not exactly sure.”  Emma tosses yet another CD case belonging to one of Killian’s terrible 80’s compilations onto the coffee table, smiling with grim satisfaction when it lands in a particularly sticky patch. “But if my headache is anything to go by, I had a _great_ time.”

~*~

Killian stares out the window of the train as it approaches Central, his phone burning a hole in his coat pocket. He hasn’t allowed himself to check the camera roll this morning, hoping that perhaps if he pretends a particular photograph doesn’t exist, he can pretend that last night didn’t happen. In the interests of self-preservation and all that nonsense, given that Emma apparently doesn’t remember a bloody thing.

She doesn’t remember kissing him.

Neither does she remember confessing that she fancies him (well, she hadn’t used those exact words, but it had been pretty bleeding obvious) and tonight, she will be going on a date with her boyfriend which will no doubt end with said boyfriend in her bed.

He closes his eyes, furious with himself for the hot twist of jealousy that cuts through his chest (and with _her_ for kissing him in the first place, he’s man enough to admit it), then tugs the phone from his pocket. Five seconds later, he’s looking at a perfectly framed image that makes his gut clench.

In the photograph, he’s kissing Emma as though he’s a condemned prisoner and she’s his last meal. More importantly, she’s kissing him exactly the same way, with apparently no objection to the fact that his hands are all over her back and buried in her hair. Just looking at it brings _everything_ all back with a rush, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her pressed against him, her soft sigh as he’d kissed her neck. Even now, he knows he’d be able to pick her perfume out of a line-up of thousands.

He thinks of how she’d looked this morning, all damp skin and wet hair and soft lips, smiling at him as though she had no clue she’d turned his world upside down the night before, and briefly allows himself to imagine what might have happened if he’d hauled her out of that kitchen chair and kissed her until she’d been soft and pliant in his arms, just as she had been last night.

He looks at the photo again, immediately regretting his decision when he shifts awkwardly in his seat. If he wasn’t dealing with the prospect of an ill-timed erection while sitting on public transport, he’d be impressed by Emma’s photography skills, because that drunken shot had definitely captured the moment as far as he remembers it.

Sadly, it seems he’s the only one who does.

(He should delete the photograph.

He knows he won’t.)

He grabs his satchel and prepares to get to his feet as his stop approaches, strangely thankful for the prospect of the nightmare pile of work that awaits him at the office.  It should keep his brain occupied at least, if not the more easily distracted parts of his body. He can blag on all he likes about being a man of honour but, as of last night, the playing field has irrevocably changed.  Now he knows that this thing between them is far from one-sided.  Now he has hope, and he can’t help thinking that a little hope can be a very dangerous thing.

The big question is, he muses as he slips his phone back into his pocket and prepares to face another day in corporate purgatory, what the hell does he do  _now_?

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

~*~

 

Despite her early start that morning, thanks to stopping to clean the mess she and Killian had made the night before, Emma arrives at her office without a single second to spare. With her headache lingering, she’d decided to drive to the office rather than catch the train, but she’d forgotten that the Bug needed gas, and then once she was at the garage, she’d noticed that her back tires needed air. Time had ticked past without her noticing, and suddenly she was in danger of being late for work.

Not for the first time that morning, she curses Killian Jones and his bottle of vodka.

She used the last sliver of time to pick up the biggest takeout coffee she could find. The coffee she’d chugged at home had barely touched the sides (as her third foster mother used to say), and it was definitely time to top up her caffeine levels.

“Morning, Emma. Glad you decided to join us.”

“Morning.” Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, she gives her boss a feeble smile as she drops her purse and coat onto her desk, and the other woman’s eyes widen.

“Oh, dear.” Far from appearing annoyed, Kathryn just looks amused. “Looks like someone didn’t get enough beauty sleep last night.”

Despite knowing her boss’ sense of humour all too well, Emma still finds herself lifting one hand to her hair, smoothing it back and wondering if it’s obvious that she barely spent five minutes on her make-up this morning. “Few drinks at home last night after taking my allergy medication. Rookie mistake.”

Kathryn’s wide mouth quirks. “In that case, you’ll be pleased to hear that your first job should be a breeze.”

Emma takes the proffered file, flicking through it as she drops into her swivel chair. “Felix Piper.” She studies the attached mug shot of the gaunt-faced teenager, who seems to be trying to stare her down through the camera lens. “What’s his deal?”

“This time? Shoplifting.” Kathryn’s tone is flat, as if the kid’s petty crimes bored her. “Seems to think of himself as a modern day Fagen, that one. Has quite a few little followers.”

Emma scrunches her nose. “He runs a pickpocketing gang? How Dickensian.” Looking at Felix’s mugshot, she has to admit, he’s got the right look for it.

“His court date was yesterday.  To no one’s surprise, he didn’t show.”

Emma flips the file shut and takes another long sip of her coffee. “Who organised bail?”

“His poor long-suffering mother.” Kathryn picks a non-existent speck of lint off the shoulder of her black jacket. “Put her beloved vintage Cadillac up as collateral.”

“Well, then.” Her ass has barely touched her chair, but that’s how this job works. “Let me go see if I can make sure she gets to keep it.”

Luckily, she doesn’t have to travel very far. Felix Piper is currently working as a cashier (oh, the irony) in a electronics store at the Mall only ten minutes drive from her office. Emma rolls her eyes when she sees his choice of workplace.  _Smooth, kid, real smooth._  Electronics stores deal in small, expensive merchandise, the shelves and glass cabinets filled with stock that’s easily lifted and concealed and repackaged. If you get a clueless manager, then you can have thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise walking right out the door every month, and she’s not talking about customer theft.

In person, Felix Piper is a lot taller and thinner than his personal stats might have implied. His dark blonde hair is scraped back from a face that is all cheekbones and teeth, and Emma can only assume that he has quite the compelling personality, because outwardly, that is not a face anyone would trust. Emma browses at the back of the store for a few moments, feigning interest in their range of mp3 player headphones, and watches her target as he interacts with the various customers. It doesn’t take long for her to realise that (a) half of the customers are actually Felix’s ‘associates’ and (b) she isn’t going to waste her time flipping her hair and flirting with this one.

She waits until she’s the only other person at the front of the store (the other employee has ducked into the back room), then approaches the front counter. “Hi.”

Felix’s eyes are far paler and colder than his mugshot had indicated, and Emma makes a mental note to ask Kathryn to redefine her use of the word ‘breeze’. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She’s never heard the word ‘ma’am’ infused with quite so much disdain, and knows she has to move quickly. This kid is no fool, and she has the feeling he’ll see right through any line she might try to use. Casually strolling to the end of the long counter until she’s half-blocking any escape route, she smiles at him. “I’m here to give you a second chance to keep your date with the court.”

The kid’s face goes blank, his eyes becoming even more cold. “Is that so?”

“Come on, Felix.” Emma tugs the cuffs from her belt, letting them dangle casually from her fingertips. “You don’t want your mom to lose her Caddy, do you?”

“That pile of junk.” He’s smiling now, as if she’s just told him the punchline to the funniest joke in the world. “She should thank me for getting it out of her drive.”

Emma gives him the smile that Killian often tells her reminds him of a shark just before it goes in for the kill (which is hardly flattering, but she gets his drift) and takes a step closer. “You know the drill, kid. Easy way or hard way, I’m good with either.”

“Bite me, bitch.” He says the words so calmly that it’s almost a shock when he vaults over the counter and sprints for the front door of the store

“Son of a  _bitch_.” Emma’s out the front door and into the mall only a few seconds behind him, very glad she’d chosen her boots with the lowest heel today. Seems like her hangover had a silver lining, after all.

Felix Piper is fast, but they’re not in the street now. They’re in a crowded shopping mall, and Emma effortlessly tracks him through the sea of people, following the path of offended patrons he’s shoved out of the way. It soon becomes clear that he’s not as familiar with the layout of the mall as she is (she remembers that he’s only worked at that store for a few weeks), and when she catches up with him, it’s in a dead end created by a row of public bathroom doors and a post office outlet. She’s puffing as she draws up a few feet in front of him, but so is he, the little shit. “Come on, kid. Let’s just get this over with.”

His lip curls in a snarl that would have made Billy Idol proud. “Like I said before,  _bite me, bitch.”_

The wild swing at her head she was expecting, but the kick aimed at her knee is an interesting addition. In the end, however, their tussle ends in exactly the way she’d anticipated. Felix Piper is on the ground, his cheek squished against the hard tiled floor, her knee in the middle of his back as she cuffs him without too much due care and attention. “Now seems like a good time to remind you that I own both a taser and a registered firearm,” she tells him cheerfully as she drags him to his feet. “I also have a headache, so I really wouldn’t push my luck if I were you.”

She’s got to hand it to him, he’s still mouthing off as she escorts him back through the mall. “You  _wish_  you were me.”

The kid’s ego apparently rivals that of a certain flatmate (damn it, why does she keep thinking of him?) and she can’t help grinning. “Yeah, well, seems to me that only one of us will be spending some quality time in a jail cell today, and it sure as shit won’t be me, kid.”

It’s a fifteen minute drive to the police station, and in that time her reluctant passenger manages to insult her car, her hairstyle, the size of her breasts and her leather jacket. She’s dealt with way too many lowlifes to count over the years, but she can’t remember the last time she was so glad to wash her hands of a bail skip as she is to hand Felix Piper over to the local law enforcement. “See you in court, Felix,” she calls out softly out as he’s led away, and from the look on his face, he’d give anything to be able to flip her the bird. Pity about those cuffs he’s wearing.

Another fifteen minutes, and she’s back in the office, feeling energised and headache free. As she swings through the front door of Midas Bonds, Kathryn sticks her head out of her office. “All good?”

“Just like you said.” Shrugging out of her leather jacket, Emma cricks her neck to one side, then the other, stretching muscles already warmed by her pursuit of Felix. “It was a breeze.”

She’s just finishing up the paperwork (another nice check for her vacation fund, she thinks with a pleased smile) when her phone buzzes with an incoming text. She knows without looking that it will be Walsh. It’s just before lunchtime of the day after an argument, and if history is any indication, his message will be an invitation to catch up for a quick bite to eat and bury the hatchet. Sighing, Emma ignores her phone until the paperwork is done, then she swipes one fingertip across the phone screen with a sense of inevitability.

_Hi, sweetheart. So sorry again about last night. You know work is crazy at the moment. Let me make it up to you with a picnic lunch? I can pick you up in 15._

Emma frowns. She know she needs to put a stop to this endless cycle of let-down and apology, but the rumbling of her stomach has other ideas. Her lack of breakfast has left her feeling ravenous, and if she has to swallow yet another apology while she’s inhaling what she knows from experience will be an amazing lunch, then so be it.

She types a quick reply, telling him that she’ll be waiting outside her office at noon, then sends the message on its way before she can change her mind or think too hard about why she’s feeling so unenthusiastic about seeing Walsh today. It’s not just because he cancelled on her last night (again), she’s not that precious, it’s just -

She stares unseeing at the phone cradled in her palm, the familiar feel and shape of it tugging at something in her memory. _Oh_   _God, did she drunk dial someone last night?_ Holding her breath, she quickly skims through her recent calls, heaving a literal sigh of relief when she finds no incriminating evidence that she made a fool of herself last night. Besides, Killian had said that she hadn’t done anything embarrassing, so there’s that.

 _And_ she’s right back to thinking about Killian Jones again.

He’d been acting strangely this morning, all tight-lipped and no nonsense, not a single flirtatious word in sight. She should be glad, because anything that makes it easier for her to keep the lid on her feelings for him is a good idea, but their conversation in the kitchen has left a bad taste in her mouth. Maybe she shouldn’t go out with Walsh tonight (she knows he’s going to ask to take her to dinner, that’s just how he works), maybe she should head home and smooth things over with her flatmate.

Her flatmate who told her that he’d be going out drinking after he’s finished at the office and basically for her not to wait up.

That flatmate.

Emma rubs her eyes, vaguely aware that she’s putting her new smudge-proof mascara to the test. Walsh, she reminds herself with dull determination. She’s meeting Walsh for lunch in fifteen minutes, and maybe she should make sure she’s fit to be seen in public (chasing lowlifes might be a great cardio workout, but she has the feeling that her rushed make up job is hanging by a thread right now) rather than thinking about another man, especially one she’s got no business thinking about.

Picking up her purse, Emma makes for the employee washroom with the same feeling of inevitability with which she’d read Walsh’s text message. Maybe one day, she’ll be able to get her head and her heart in synch, but apparently today isn’t going to be that day.

~*~

His phone beeps just after three o’clock, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping it was Emma.

Alas, no.

It’s from another of his three flatmates, and even in a text message Mary Margaret sounds like the chirpy, upbeat school teacher that she is.

_Just three of us for dinner tonight. I know it’s your turn to cook but do you want me to pick up something quick from the market on the way home? It’s Friday night, after all!_

His heart sinks. He knows full well that David isn’t working a late shift tonight, so that leaves only one person who will be missing from their apartment this evening. It appears Walsh has indeed managed to convince Emma to go to dinner, he thinks sourly, and quickly dashes off a reply.

_Thanks for the offer, love, but I’ll be catching up with some friends after I’ve finished here. Sorry to leave you in the lurch. You’ll just have to put up with that Nolan git all by yourself tonight._

She sends him back a tongue-poking emoticon as a reply, and he thinks – not for the first time – that she truly is the walking embodiment of the perfect elementary school teacher. David certainly landed on his feet there, he muses, and is relieved when his secretary appears at his door before his thoughts can follow the inevitable path back to Emma Swan.

“Mr Jones?”

“Mr Jones is my father, love.” He looks at the beaming redhead hovering in his doorway. “Killian, remember?”

“Sorry.” She ducks her head in an embarrassed nod, and he reminds himself yet again that her last employer was an archaic firm where the support staff weren’t allowed to be on a first name basis with their legal colleagues. “It’s hard to get used to, I still-”

Knowing this could go on for quite a while, he cuts her off as gently as possible. “Did you need me for something, Ariel?” (Seriously, some parents really should have the naming rights of their children taken away from them.)

“Ashley Boyd and Sean Herman are here for you.”

New clients. Excellent. Just the thing to stop him from obsessively checking that he hasn’t accidentally deleted that photo of Emma kissing the hell out of him. “Remind me?”

She slips quickly to his side, handing him a newly created client folder. “Unmarried couple with a three month old child, estranged from the paternal grandfather.” She makes a patently sad face, and he wonders anew if Family Law is truly the right area for her. “Sean’s father is applying for visitation rights to the child.”

“Ah.” He smooths one hand through his hair (it never does to give the first impression of someone who’s literally been tearing out his hair), then straightens his tie. “Show them into the conference room and I’ll be with them shortly.”

Ariel practically curtseys before leaving his office, and he’s still shaking his head as he gathers up the client folder and a supply of his business card. She’s definitely an improvement on his last secretary, but he can’t help wondering how long this one will last. She seems far too soft-hearted to deal with the kind of work he does on a daily basis. Only yesterday he found her teary-eyed after proofreading a client’s affidavit. Only time will tell, he supposes. He’s been guilty of underestimating people before, after all.

His meeting with the new clients goes well. Ashley may only be nineteen but seems to have quite the level head on her shoulders. Her partner Sean defers to her through the interview, despite seeming quite a forceful personality in his own right, and Killian can’t help but marvel at how often he sees two such personalities drawn to each other. Of course, this thought leads him straight back to Emma Swan, and he wants to clip himself on the back of the head.

His clients depart with assurances that he will set the wheels in motion to protect their parental rights, and he’s pleased to find that it’s close to five o’clock. He hands Ariel the client folder, tells her that she can attend to it on Monday and to have herself a good weekend. Her smile seems to stretch from ear to ear, and she darts a coy glance at the framed photograph of herself and the man he assumes is her significant other. “Thank you.” She locks the client folder away in her filing cabinet, then starts to gather up her belongings. “Eric is taking me out to dinner tonight, somewhere special he said, and I really wanted to look my best, so it would be wonderful if I could-”

He finds himself scratching the back of his neck, a nervous tic he’s tried very hard to expunge over the years, but to no avail. “Ariel.” She looks at him with those giant eyes, and he tilts his head towards the way out. “Go home.”

Five minutes later, he is alone in his office, enjoying the blissful silence from the empty desk outside his door as he flicks through the contacts on his phone for a likely drinking partner.

Jefferson? Hilarious, but far too intense.

Archie? Thank you, no. He’s not in the mood to be psychoanalysed this evening.

Will? Perhaps not, he’d like to avoid being arrested for public intoxication tonight.

He scrolls through to the end of the alphabet, grinning when he finds exactly the right name. He taps out a quick text, sending it winging its way to Victor Whale (again, what are these parents thinking?) three city blocks away at a rival firm. His friend’s reply is swift and succinct and uses both the words ‘plastered’ and ‘shag’, and Killian feels a sudden pang of longing for a quiet dinner at home with Mary Margaret and David. Perhaps two nights on the booze isn’t the best idea he’s ever had, but he’ll be damned if he spends his evening kicking around the apartment like a stray puppy while Emma is out being wined and dined by Walsh.

_Walsh._

It seems to be the era of ridiculous names, he thinks uncharitably as he loosens his tie and tosses it into his satchel. The man has done nothing to earn his disdain (apart from the obvious, of course) but Killian has never been able to warm to him. He likes to think of himself as quite the judge of character, and there’s something about the other man’s manner that has always unsettled him. Too eager to please, too keen to impress, his smile never quite reaching those dark eyes of his.

Of course, not everyone shares his opinion. Emma for one, obviously, and it pains him to think of how highly David and Mary Margaret seem to regard him. They want Emma to be happy, as does he, but he can’t believe that she’s found her perfect match in a too-eager-to-please owner of a furniture store filled with the kind of goods hipsters around the world find irresistible. If he never sees another bloody mason jar in their kitchen, it will be too soon.

Shoving Emma from his thoughts with a concerted effort, he makes his way to the bar where he’s arranged to meet Victor. His friend is already halfway through a pint when he arrives, and gives him a cheery wave from his chosen booth. “Wow. Someone’s looking a little rough.”

“Really?” Killian makes a show of rubbing the heel of his palm along his jaw. “I thought I was looking particularly dashing today.”

A few moments later, there’s a beer in front of him and Victor has secured his second of the evening.” “How’s work?”

Killian grins. “Outstanding. You?”

“Never better.”

They lift their glasses in a toast, their customary six-word ritual over, and get down to the business of discussing everything but the work they’ve just left behind. He and Victor fell in the habit long ago of  _not_  discussing work unless they needed to pick each other’s brains, and it’s always worked out quite well. Once they’ve finished dissecting the rugby and the latest scandal in local politics (yet another married man caught with his pants down, how trite), Victor signals the waitress and orders more buffalo wings than a man who once practised medicine should order. “Seeing anyone?”

Killian should have been expecting the question, and yet it still takes him by surprise. He shakes his head, ignoring the pang that tightens his chest. “No one special.”

“What happened to last month’s one?” Victor admires the back view of a passing waitress, momentarily distracted. “What was her name again?”

Killian takes a sip of his beer, thinking that perhaps he’s made an error of judgement in choosing Victor as a drinking cohort this evening. He should have remembered the other man’s liking for endlessly discussing the fairer sex and the best ways in which to woo them. Normally this is fine, but tonight, he’s doing his best not to think of women. Well, he amends silently, one woman in particular. “Jane, and she wanted to go on a camping weekend in the great outdoors.”

“Hot sex in a two-person tent not your thing?”

He sips at his beer again, ignoring the protesting twinge in his stomach. Beer and buffalo wings, God help him. He definitely needs to do some kind of detox at some point. Perhaps next week. “The hot sex was never the problem,” he tells the other man, dropping his voice an octave. “It was the conversation in between the sex that never got past first base.”

His friend laughs, his eyes lighting up as he shakes his head. “You are one picky bastard, you know that?” Before he can protest, Victor is gesturing towards the waitress he’s been eyeing ever since Killian arrived. “Will you look at that?”

Killian looks. He has to admit, the woman in question is certainly easy on the eyes. Ludicrously long legs, dark hair streaked with red and a face that could stop traffic. She smiles at the table she’s serving, a flash of scarlet lips and white teeth, and Killian knows he’s officially lost Victor’s attention. He knows his friend will dedicate the rest of their evening to getting that waitress’ number, and to be perfectly honest, he’d be happier at home watching a DVD on his laptop while hiding out in his room.

It’s a sad state of affairs for a Friday evening, but there it is.

“Mate, I might leave you to it.”

Victor looks disappointed, but only briefly, his gaze already drifting back towards his target. “Your loss, my friend.” The other man gives him a bright wink. “I’m sure she’ll have a friend who’d be only too happy to take your mind off the hiking woman.”

Killian shakes his head. Normally, he’d be all for it, but not tonight. Perhaps it’s because he’s still feeling the lingering effects of last night’s events (the vodka shots, of course) but the thought of making small talk with a strange woman, no matter how attractive, is less than appealing. “Perhaps next time.” He finishes off his beer with a flourish, then claps his friend on the shoulder. “Good luck, mate.”

Victor’s smile is beyond smug. “It’s in the bag, trust me.” He holds up their bar tab. “She’s already comped me the buffalo wings.”

The train trip home is uneventful, just the usual drunken idiots and snogging couples, and the apartment is suspiciously quiet when he opens the front door. After dumping his satchel and jacket into his bedroom, he makes his way to the living room to find Mary Margaret and David curled up together on their customary couch, watching some action movie on low volume. “Evening.”

David shoots him a grin over the top of Mary Margaret’s head. “You’re home early.”

He drops onto the other couch, the one where he and Emma usually camp out when the four of them are home at the same time. “Victor was intent on pulling a particularly luscious waitress, so I decided to bow out gracefully.”

The happy couple disentangle themselves, then Mary Margaret leans forward to pick up the bottle of red sitting on the coffee table in front of them. “Want some wine?”

He manages not to make a face. “Thank you, no.” He gives him a quick smile. “I think I’ll give my liver time to recover from the beating it took last night.”

Mary Margaret’s heart-shaped face grows stern. “Speaking of which, it wasn’t very nice of you to leave Emma to clean up your mess by herself this morning.”

He blinks. Mess? Had Emma remembered? Bloody hell, had she already told their friends what happened last night? “Mess?”

David hides a smile as Mary Margaret gestures to the room around them. “Pizza boxes and CD cases wall to wall, my friend.”

 _Damn it._ He’d been so intent on escaping the apartment this morning that he had completely forgotten about the debris they’d left in the living room. “My apologies, love.”

“Don’t say sorry to _me_ ,” she tells him tartly. “Emma’s the one who cleaned it up before she left for work this morning.”

 _There’s an opening if ever he heard one,_  he thinks. “Is she home?”

“Nope.” David turns up the volume on the television just in time to fully appreciate the sound of a CGI helicopter into the side of a building. “Dinner with Walsh.”

Mary Margaret curls into her boyfriend’s side once again, looking as though she can barely keep her eyes open. “She’s staying at his place tonight, too, so you’ll have time to practise that apology.”

Something dark and sour tightens in the pit of his stomach.  _Perfect._

“Well, I might call it a night.” They both look at him with surprise, and he can’t say he blames them. He’s usually the last of them to call it a night, but tonight, as the saying goes, he thinks he would rather be where people are not.

“You want to come to brunch with us in the morning?” Mary Margaret, with her years of reading petulant children’s moods, seems intent on keeping him from wallowing in solitude into the weekend, it seems.  “We’re going to try that new place on Fifth Street.”

He smiles at her, wondering what she’d say if he told her the truth behind his current lack of enthusiasm for socialising. She means well, he knows, but there are some things that overpriced poached eggs and slices of imported melon just can’t fix.  Besides, having walked past the establishment in question, he suspects it might be the kind of place to serve its kale-and-beet-and-other-mysterious-things juice in buggering mason jars.  “I might take a raincheck on that, love.”

Finally, he manages to escape to his bedroom (David looks disappointed that he’ll have to watch the action movie sequel by himself) and briefly considers dragging out his laptop and seeing if his brother is awake. Since the advent of Skype, he and Liam barely exchange more than one or two emails a week these days, and even then most of those tend to be bawdy jokes. He dismisses the notion, because Skype is the very worst medium for anyone who doesn’t want to invite questions of ‘why the long face?’ from one’s older brother. He’ll drop him a line tomorrow, see how things are happening on his side of the globe.

Right now, all Killian wants to do is fall into bed, fall asleep, and not waste a single thought on the fact that Emma is more than likely naked in another man’s bed while he’s here alone, dithering over his bloody laptop.

He manages to fall into bed but sadly, that’s all he manages to achieve.

These are the kind of times that could make a man turn to strong drink, he thinks darkly as he tosses and turns, his usually perfectly comfortable bed feeling as though it’s filled with rocks. Perhaps it’s just as well he’s decided to give his liver the night off.

Sleep is a very long time in coming, and every waking moment between becoming horizontal and oblivion is filled with the thought of Emma Swan and the fact that she doesn’t even remember the kiss that has completely upended his life.

As Friday nights go, he may have had a worse one, but right now, he certainly can’t recall it.

~*~

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading this story, you will know that our heroine is presently in a relationship with Walsh. This chapter contains mention of Emma/Walsh. Just so you know. (It also has a lot of Killian so, you know. *g*)

 

~*~

 

Pausing in her search for her favourite black pumps, which for some reason known only to themselves appear to have vanished from her bedroom, she tosses her friend a quick smile.  “What are you guys doing tonight?”

By ‘you guys’, of course, she means Mary Margaret and David.  She already knows what (or maybe that should be  _who)_ their fourth housemate is doing tonight.  The thought is vaguely depressing, and she’s suddenly irritated with herself, because she has  _no_  business caring about what or  _who_  Killian might be doing this evening.

And maybe if she tells herself that enough times, she thinks, she might actually believe it.

Mary Margaret’s voice breaks into her increasingly muddled internal monologue.  “Oh, something very exciting.”  Her friend smiles as she perches on the edge of Emma’s bed, her legs stretched out in front of her as she admires the result of trying on Emma’s newest pair of boots.  “These are great,” she murmurs, then glances back at Emma. “We’re having a quiet dinner at home, just the two of us, no-one under twenty-eight in sight. Bliss.”

At that moment, Emma spies her missing shoes.  “ _There_  you are.”   After a brief moment spent retrieving them (they’d been kicked under the dresser, quite possibly in annoyance, quite possibly last Wednesday night after she’d had to run down that charmer who’d decided to sprint the length of Main Street rather than have to face the reality of paying child support), she drops down onto the bed beside the other woman to put them on.  “Tough week at work?”

Mary Margaret’s smile widens, although Emma can see the weariness in her eyes. “As tough as spending the last five days straight with thirty ten year-olds go, I guess.”

Emma snorts inelegantly as she buckles the strap on her right shoe.  She’s never met anyone who adores her work as much as Mary Margaret Blanchard does.  “You know you love it.”

“I do.”  Her friend flops backwards onto the bed, stretching her arms above her head.  “But that doesn’t mean 3:01pm on a Friday afternoon isn’t my favourite time of the week.”   As Emma rises to her feet, Mary Margaret gives her an approving nod, her gaze sweeping from the black pumps upwards to take in the black skirt and blue blouse.  “So, where’s Walsh taking you tonight?”

“Just that little Italian place in his neighbourhood.”   Emma checks her ears to make sure she’s remembered to put on both earrings before blowing a stray curl out of her face.  “I didn’t really feel like going anywhere fancy tonight.”   Thanks to Walsh’s picnic lunch (her post-hangover appetite had well and truly reared its head by the time he’d picked her up), she doubts she’ll be able to do justice to the menu, but she’s not about to pass on one of her favourite restaurants.  “Did I tell you that he brought a picnic lunch to work today and whisked me off to the park to eat it?”

The other woman’s expression goes soft and misty-eyed, and Emma half-regrets mentioning it.  Sometimes she forgets what a hopeless romantic her friend is.  “That’s so sweet.” 

“I guess.”  Emma tugs one last wayward curl into place with one hand as she picks up her purse with the other, then catches Mary Margaret’s eye.  “What?”

“You know, Emma, it’s okay to be romantic sometimes.”

Emma stares at her friend, ignoring the tiny (and familiar) prickle of anxiety that rises in her chest.  “I can be romantic.”

Mary Margaret’s smile is kind, but it still has ‘who do you think you’re kidding?’ written all over it.  “If you say so.”

Emma makes her way through the apartment, her friend trailing in her wake.  “Besides, Walsh has that department covered enough for both of us.”

Behind her, she hears Mary Margaret scoff. “See, this is what I mean.”

She can’t have this conversation, Emma thinks.  Not again, and definitely not tonight, when she’s already feeling distracted and off-kilter for reasons she  _really_  doesn’t want to examine. “I gotta go.”  She picks up the overnight bag she’d hastily packed and dumped onto the couch, hoping she’d remembered to toss in a clean pair of jeans but lacking in the energy to double check.  “I should be home around lunch time tomorrow, I guess.”

“Emma-” The other woman’s hand is warm on her forearm, giving it an apologetic squeeze.  “I didn’t mean-“

“It’s all good.”  Emma smiles at her, knowing she has to nip this subject in the bud before either of them can say something they’ll regret.  “But you know, not everyone’s lucky enough to meet Prince Charming in their first week of college.”  Mary Margaret blushes, and Emma’s irritation dissolves.  Honestly, if those two were any more infatuated with each other, she’d have to contact the Guinness Book of Records. 

“I just want you to be happy.”

Hefting her overnight bag onto her shoulder, Emma gives her a friend a one-armed hug.  “I  _am_  happy.”   _Mostly,_ she adds silently, then fishes her car keys out of her purse.  “You and David have a good night, okay?”

Mary Margaret looks unconvinced, but Emma knows it will pass.  As soon as she’s out the door, her best friend will be thinking about David arriving home and dinner and the prospect of having the apartment to themselves for the evening and lots of other things that Emma doesn’t really want know.  She just hopes Mary Margaret remembers to take off _her_ boots first.  “Drive carefully.”

Emma gives her friend her best long-suffering look as the door starts to close between them.  “Yes,  _Mom._ ”

Walsh is waiting outside his apartment building when she pulls into the last spare visitor’s parking space, and he’s quick to dash around to the driver’s side and open her door.  He greets her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then puts both hands on her shoulders, his dark gaze sweeping over her from head to toe.  “You look great.”

“Thanks.” She grins, uncomfortably aware that her pulse doesn’t leap quite as high as it used to at the admiration warming his eyes.  _It still leaps, though_ , she thinks,  _so that’s good, right?_  “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He’s dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt, no tie, and she’s suddenly glad she decided to go with the black pumps and skirt instead of her first impulse of jeans and boots.  “I’ll just get your bag.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I can get it-”

Her words fall into thin air, because he’s already grabbing her overnight bag from the passenger seat.  Telling herself that it’s sweet that he waits downstairs for her (he worries about her finding a parking space after dark) and insists on carrying her bags (his mother raised him to be a gentleman) and wonders when it started annoying her rather than charming her.  Sometimes, she thinks he forgets that she tackles felons for a living.

Smiling, he does his usual ‘after you’ gesture, and Emma makes her way towards the front entrance to his building, suddenly feeling strangely detached from her surroundings.  He asks about her day and she tells him about Felix Piper (leaving out any details that might compromise dear old Felix’s privacy), then the short surveillance stint she did after leaving him at lunch time.  As always, he listens attentively, and it’s only when they reach his apartment that he starts to tell her about his own day. 

She’s a terrible person, obviously, because as soon as he starts telling her about the married buyer who wanted three identical dining suites, all in different wood finishes, to put in the three different houses in which he’s set up his three mistresses, her mind starts to wonder.  She finds herself watching him as he speaks, not really hearing the words he’s saying, trying desperately to sort out what the hell is going on in her head.

Most days, she’s pretty sure that she loves him.

Those are the good days.

Other days, she’s afraid she still doesn’t know how to really let herself love _anyone_.

They’ve been dating for almost eighteen months now, and it’s been pretty good.  It’s definitely been better than anything else she’s ever had (she isn’t going to think of Neal, not tonight, her life is complicated enough at the moment) and there have definitely been times when she’s thought  _Maybe, maybe he’s the one, maybe this is it._ Thinking is a long way from actually doing, though, and for the most part, she’s glad that they’re still taking things slow.

Well, slow in some respects, given that they’d ended up in bed on their third date. From the moment she’d cuffed one of his employees and dragged her out of Walsh’s store to reschedule a court appearance for indecent exposure, there had been something there, a spark that he’d wasted no time in fanning when she’d returned the next day to get him to sign the usual paperwork. 

The physical side of things has never been an issue. (After all, sex is easy.  It’s relationships that are terrifying.) If she’s perfectly honest, until a few months ago, Emma didn’t actually think there were  _any_ issues. But lately, little things have been bothering her, things that she can’t really explain, things that would sound mean and petty if she said them out loud. 

Sometimes, it’s easier to say nothing.

“Hey, you still with me?”

She blinks to find Walsh gazing at her, his expression impatient.  As soon as their eyes meet, though, he smiles broadly, making her wonder if she imagined it.  “God, I’m sorry.”  Looking down, she sees that he’s already stowed her overnight bag in his room, and is clutching his car keys.  “I really zoned out there, didn’t I?”

Running his hand down her back, he presses a kiss to the side of her head.  “Everything okay?”

“Yep.”   She smiles back at him, determined not to drag him into the vortex of her strange mood.  “Been a long day at work, but I’m good to go.”

He looks as though he wants to say something, but instead he just smiles, and she feels a flicker of frustration, because he’s obviously tiptoeing around her and she wishes he wouldn’t. “If you’d rather just stay in, I could cook-”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.”   She gestures between them, then picks up her purse, because she doesn’t want to stay home and have him wait on her, not tonight.  “Besides, we’re dressed to kill and you’ve already booked the window table.” 

For the first time she arrived, he seems to relax. “Well, when you put it like that, we’d be crazy _not_ to go.”

 

~*~

 

The sound of a key in the lock of their front door makes Killian’s stomach clench with anticipation, and he hates himself a little for it.  He knows it can’t be David and Mary Margaret (they only left for brunch an hour ago) and his pulse quickens as he listens to Emma’s distinctive footsteps.  She makes her way into her bedroom, lingering long enough to toss her belongings onto her bed perhaps, then she’s strolling into the kitchen, smiling when she catches sight of him sprawled at the kitchen table.  “Hey.”

“Hmm.” He pauses in his perusal of the newspaper, putting a thoughtful finger to his lips as he stares at her. “Swan, isn’t it?”

“Ha,  _ha._ ”  She pulls a face at him as she wrenches open the door of the refrigerator and peers inside.  “I haven’t been AWOL _that_  long.”

He begs to differ.  He hasn’t seen her since Friday morning, and it’s now midday on Saturday.  Given the events of Thursday evening, it has felt like an eternity.  As she’s engrossed in her perusal of their chilled foodstuffs, he’s at his leisure to admire the alluring picture she makes in her red sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.  She’s wearing no makeup or earrings, as though she’s dressed quickly after sleeping late, and he realises with a pang that’s probably exactly what she _has_ done.  

It’s fine, he thinks.  He can do this.  “Nice dinner last night?”

She shrugs, her gaze firmly focused on the contents of their refrigerator. “Ugh.  There is  _nothing_  to eat.”  

He files away the ignoring of his question (to be obsessed over at a later time, it pains him to admit) and clears his throat.  “Our definitions of the word ‘nothing’ obviously differ greatly.”

“You know what I mean.”  He tries and fails not to stare at the wonderful swell of her arse as she bends to inspect the far reaches of the shelves. Knowing she’s come from another man’s bed makes no difference to his libido, it seems. “There’s no meat, no cheese, no snack stuff.”  With a sigh, she straightens and turns to him, pinning him into his chair with a suddenly intent, bright green stare.  “Wanna go buy some groceries?”

Amused by this sudden enthusiasm for a domestic chore she normally avoids like the plague, he grins.  “Who are you, and _what_ have you done with Emma Swan?”

She gives him an unimpressed look that might have disheartened a lesser man, but he’s made of sterner stuff.  “I was just thinking that Mary Margaret and David are always the ones who end up doing the weekly grocery run,” she mutters as she takes the magnetic shopping list from the door of the refrigerator.  “Maybe we should give them the week off for once.”

He has never really enjoyed trailing about the supermarket, inevitably pushing a dodgy cart with one unreliable wheel, but suddenly the prospect is rather appealing.  “Only if we take my car.”

“What’s wrong with mine?”

“Nothing, darling.”  He’s not sure he’s up for the challenge of spending an hour or two squeezed together into that cozy little car of hers. “Your wee yellow insect is  _extremely_ charming, however perhaps a little more trunk space might be in order.”

She smirks. “You mean like the space in that giant all-terrain thing of yours that you never drive anywhere except on perfectly sealed roads?”

He waves a dismissive hand.  It’s an accusation he’s heard many a time from all three of his housemates, but when the weather turns nasty and the streets are icy and they need to get safely from A to B, they always sing a different tune.  “Mark my words, Swan.  One day, I’m going to take that car and-”

“Yes, yes. I know.”  She’s laughing at him now, but he finds he doesn’t mind, not in the slightest.  “You’re going to take that car and drive it until you reach the sea, and then you’ll make a campfire and stare at the stars until you forget the rat race you’ve left behind.”  He stares at her, mute with surprise at the odd tenderness in her voice, and her smile falters.  “Hey, I’m kidding, okay?”

“No, I know.”  Pushing back his chair, he gets to his feet, carefully folding his newspaper as an excuse to give his hands something to do.  “I just wasn’t expecting to hear my own words quoted back to me quite so _verbatim_ , as it were.” 

She makes a show of rolling her eyes, but he sees the smile lingering in her eyes.  “What have I told you about using Latin on me before lunch?”

He closes the distance between them with three easy strides, because if he’s going to torture himself today, he may as well enjoy it.  When he’s close enough to smell the subtle spice of her perfume, he taps her hip lightly with his folded newspaper. “You love it when I break out the Latin, Swan, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“Your ego knows no bounds, Jones.”  Despite the snappy comeback, he can see the colour staining her cheeks, although whether the newspaper tap or his teasing words are the cause, he’s not sure.   It doesn’t matter, to be honest, because she hasn’t stepped away from him and now he can feel the warmth of her body.  If he so chose, he could count the number of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, catalogue the silver flecks in her green eyes if he didn’t already know them by heart.  The high ponytail she’s wearing has exposed the long line of her throat, and he remembers the fluttering of her pulse beneath his tongue.  Her face is scant inches from his, close enough for him to-

No.

Stop.

This is madness.

Taking a half-step backwards, he refuses to let himself hope that the flicker of _something_ he sees in her eyes is disappointment.  “I’ll let you drive my car,” he hears himself say, and her whole face lights up. 

“ _Yes_.”

She has his car keys in her hand before he can even find his wallet, and is impatiently waiting for him at the front door like an excited child.  “I thought you disapproved of my car, Swan,” he drawls as he slips his phone into his back pocket, pleased by the lighthearted tone of his voice.

She gives him a patently _oh, please_ look.  “That doesn’t mean I don’t like driving it,” she shoots back, jingling his keys in her hand as she opens their front door.  “Come on, let’s go.”

Flicking off the hallway light (Mary Margaret is quite pedantic about such things, and he does like to keep the lady happy), he makes his way to the front door. “Sounds like _someone_ got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Her gaze narrows.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just an expression, love.” It appears he’s struck a nerve, and common sense tells him that he should let it pass, but he’s never had much common sense when it comes to this woman.  “You _do_ seem a little jagged around the edges, if I may be so bold.”

She hesitates, then shrugs as she leads the way to the elevator that will take them to the ground floor. “Just tired, I guess.  I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Knowing all too well the most likely reason why she didn’t get much sleep last night, Killian is very glad she can’t see his face.  “Unlike my good self, who was tucked up like an innocent babe well before the witching hour, sleeping the sleep of the chaste.”

The elevator bell dings, and she swings around to give him a look of exaggerated disbelief as they step into the lift together.  “Chaste?  You?”

Perhaps he should find her incredulity flattering, but it doesn’t sit well with him today. “Indeed.”

She frowns. “I thought you were going out for a drink after work.”

“I did.”  He presses the button for the ground floor, then leans against the battered wood paneling, giving himself an uninterrupted view of her lovely profile. “I had a few pints with Victor, then pulled the pin and came home.”

She snickers – actually _snickers_ – under her breath as she leans against the opposite elevator wall, one hand toying with the end of her long ponytail. “Lightweight.”

“Look who’s talking, love.” Hooking his thumbs into his belt (a surefire way to stop himself from doing something foolish like touching her) he smiles at her.  “I wasn’t the one nursing a nasty hangover after a few paltry shots of vodka.”

“Seriously?” The light of battle gleams in her eyes as they reach the ground floor and head for the front entrance, and he should hate himself for the thrill of anticipation that ripples through him, but he’s enjoying himself far too much.  “You want to be careful with all that boasting, Jones,” Emma tells him as she pushes open the heavy glass door before he has a chance to do the honours.  “People might think you’re overcompensating.”

She gestures to where his car is parked (it’s his week to utilize the treasured space allocated to their apartment), a smirk tugging at her lips.  “I mean, come _on._ ” 

He’s torn between defending his choice of oversized vehicle and being rather taken aback that Emma Swan appears to be flirting with him while she’s completely sober.  He has no idea what’s come over her in the last few days (she still hasn’t told him how her dinner with Walsh went last night), but he’ll be damned if he lets such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers. 

He steps to her side, putting his mouth close to her ear just as she’s about to unlock his car.  He feels her whole body become still and hears her sharp intake of breath and, God help him, it only spurs him on. “I can assure you, Swan,” he murmurs, almost but not quite letting his lips brush her earlobe, “that I’ve never felt the need to compensate for _anything_.”

They might be standing in the midday sun, but he has a fair idea it’s not entirely responsible for the sudden increase in temperature around them.  There’s a silence of precisely three seconds, then she lifts her chin, her gaze meeting his with a faintest air of challenge.  “Is that right?”

His breath catches in his throat. He can smell her perfume, but it’s the warm scent of skin underneath that has his gut tightening. He could kiss her right now, he realises. He could kiss her right now and she would let him.  She’d let him, and then she’d come to her senses and push him away, and he’s not sure he has it in him to weather such a storm today.

So, just as he’d broken their impasse in the kitchen earlier, he does so again, taking a half-step back and putting some much needed space between them. “It’s bad form to impugn a man’s masculinity before he’s had a chance to eat lunch, Swan.”  He nods at the keys in her hand.  “Come on, driver, hop to it.”

“Idiot,” she mutters as she rolls her eyes, but the blush creeping across her cheeks (not to mention her white-knuckled grip on his car keys) is more than enough to put a smile on his face as he heads for the passenger’s side door.  If he were keeping score - which he’s not, what kind of a gentleman would that make him – he’d definitely chalk up a point for himself right now.

 

~*~

 

Grocery shopping with Killian Jones is emotionally draining, reminding Emma of why she usually lets David and Mary Margaret take care of this particular chore.  It’s also a hell of a lot of fun, which is another reason why she usually avoids going on these kinds of domestic adventures with him.

She doesn’t need reminding that this isn’t actually her life.  Yes, he’s her friend and they might live under the same roof, but that’s as far as it goes, and being fed little crumbs of what it would be like to actually be _with_ himjust leaves her feeling restless and annoyed with herself.  After that little stunt he pulled outside their apartment building, with the whispering and the getting right into her personal space and basically making her think that he’d been about to kiss her (she’d had freaking goosebumps on her goosebumps, for fuck’s sake) she’s not sure she’s got the energy for this.

Easier said than done, of course, and right now she’s following him down the condiments aisle and has given up pretending she’s not enjoying how his ass looks in those threadbare jeans.   She has no idea how any of his staff get anything done whenever it’s Casual Day.  _No wonder he keeps having to hire new secretaries,_ she thinks, biting her bottom lip as he crouches down to examine a low shelf filled with chipotle sauce bottles.  _Obviously the strain’s too much for them._  Who the hell told him it was okay for him to wear that gray button-down shirt that rides up at the back, anyway?

“Swan, which of these do you prefer?”

And this would be the other reason why grocery shopping with Killian Jones is emotionally draining, she muses. Every single item must be vetted and examined and approved by both of them before it is allowed into the cart.  “I picked the ice-cream, so this decision is all yours.”

He looks up at her, his bright blue eyes dancing with mischief, teeth flashing white against his dark stubble as he smiles. “But what if I pick one that you absolutely despise and you hate me for it?”

She grins, leaning her elbows on the handle of their cart. “Well, I hate you already, so that won’t be an issue.”

_I hate you sometimes._

The words pop into her head out of nowhere, making her blink.  _What the hell was that?_

Killian slowly straightens up, his eyes never leaving her face, something dark and unfamiliar swimming in his gaze. “You okay there, Swan?”

She rubs her fingertips over her forehead (why, she has no idea, it’s not as though she’ll be able to sense any weird brain activity) and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite feel at home on her lips.  “Yeah, just a bit of déjà vu, I guess.”

He looks as if he wants to say something, but turns instead and picks not one but two different types of chipotle sauce off the shelf.  Catching her eye as he places them carefully in the cart, he shrugs.  “Just covering my bases.”

“Typical lawyer,” she tosses at him as she starts to push the cart, and he gives her that smirk that never fails to make the pit of her belly twitch, the one where he catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth.   

He falls into step beside her, his shoulder occasionally brushing against hers in a way that should be annoying but instead just makes her even more aware of the fact that he smells _really_ great and she wishes _her_ hair would look that good after spending less than sixty seconds on it. “You know, you still haven’t answered my question.”

“About chili sauce?”  She gestures towards the bottles now nestled in the cart between the rocky road ice cream and the block of expensive wedge of brie he’d insisted on adding.  “Pretty sure we’ve got that covered.”

“No, about your dinner last night.”

Her hands tighten on the handle of the cart.  Damn him and his freaking sixth sense.  Why does he always have to ask questions that make her want to cut and run?  And why does she almost always end up answering them anyway?  She really doesn’t want to talk to him about Walsh, but she still finds herself replying. “The food was great.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“As you said yourself, darling, typical lawyer.”   He bumps his shoulder against hers in what she thinks is meant as a gesture of solidarity, but just makes her skin prickle all over.  “We’re trained to hear what’s _not_ being said, as well as what’s actually uttered.”

She shrugs, making a show of examining the scarily wide variety of mayonnaise on the shelf.  Yet another reason why she hates doing this, she thinks.  Too much choice.  “Nothing to tell.”  She selects a jar at random, huffing under her breath when Killian takes it gently from her hand to examine the label.  “We had some nice food, came home, watched some late night TV, then we went to bed.”

She inwardly winces at the rosy picture she’s just painted, but she’s not about to share that Walsh had once again brought up the subject of her moving in with him, or the awkward silence that had followed her answer (the same one she always gives him) that she’s not ready to live together yet.  She also has no intention of telling Killian that Walsh had been annoyingly vague about why he’d had to cancel dinner the night before, or the fact that he’d told her he was ‘really tired’ once they’d climbed into bed and she’d lain awake for ages after he’d fallen asleep, wondering what the hell was going on, knowing in her heart that whatever it was, it wasn’t just her.  “You know, just the usual stuff.”

“Sounds lovely.” Maybe it’s just her imagination, but Killian is studying that label with a lot more intensity than a jar of mayonnaise warrants.  “Just checking for palm oil,” he finally says, sliding the jar into the cart without looking at her.  “It’s in bloody everything these days.”

She can’t help noticing that the tips of his ears are pink.

“Says the man who drives a gas guzzler.”

He merely gives her a serene smile.  “A man has to pick his battles, darling.”   Without giving her the chance to reply, he looks at their brimming cart, then nods with satisfaction.  “Right, I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

Emma eyes the mountain of items they seem to have collected without her even noticing it, and winces at the thought of her bank balance.  This was her idea, after all, but her monthly payday isn’t until next Monday.  “That’s a _lot_ of stuff.”

As usual, he picks up on her unspoken question, and this time, she’s grateful.  “I’ll foot the bill for this one,” he tells her, as cheerfully as though he’s offering to buy a round at the bar rather than a cartful of groceries.  “That way I can devour all those packets of upmarket chocolate biscuits with a clear conscience.”

“Cookies,” she corrects him without thinking (she always does) and he arches one dark eyebrow, lifting his hand to her face and lightly tapping the tip of her nose with his fingertip. 

“Potatoh, potahto, love.”

She stares at him as she feels the telltale heat creep up the back of her neck, making her scalp prickle.  Seriously, what the hell was going on with him lately?  Yesterday morning, he could barely bring himself to say two words to her, and now he’s turned the charm up to eleven.  “We can work out the four-way split once we get home, just like we always do,” she mutters as he swings the cart into the cashier line.  “Don’t think I’m letting you eat all those chocolate biscuits by yourself, _mate_.”

His eyes light up the way they always do when she (badly) imitates his accent, and too late she recognises the gleam of devilry in them.  “Blimey! Perhaps we can have a chinwag over a nice cup of tea while we scoff the lot of ‘em?  You seem like a cracking bird, I bet you’d be well up for it.”

The cashier is staring at them now, but Emma doesn’t care.  Laughter bubbles up in her throat, as though she’s inhaled a whole bottle of soda water, and she can only wave Killian ahead of her, hoping he takes the hint and starts loading their things onto the conveyor belt.  “Tell me the truth,” she finally gasps when she can get some air into her lungs, wiping her damp eyes. “That’s your standard pick-up line when you’re out drinking with Victor, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, Swan.” 

Pausing in his stacking, he once again leans into her personal space, his eyes impossibly blue under the fluorescent lighting, and she feels something tight and hot begins to coil in the pit of her stomach.  _Too close,_ she thinks with faint panic, but she doesn’t move.  She can’t. She’s waiting, although for what, exactly, she’s not sure.  His gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth, then back to her eyes once more.

“I was saving that one especially for you.”

With that, he gives her a bright blue wink and turns back to the cashier, the two of them immediately beginning a lively conversation about the damned chipotle sauce. She watches him as he chats happily to the cashier, an older woman with graying hair, watching the way she beams at him as though he’s made her day. 

Emma barely hears a word of it.  Her blood humming in her ears, she swallows the lump that seems to have taken up residence in her throat.  As she watches him, a wistful ache hollows out her chest.  It’s weird, but she keeps getting the feeling that she’s missed the punchline of some hilarious joke, trying to catch up while everyone else around her is laughing their heads off.

_I hate you sometimes._

She frowns.  Seriously, what the hell had that been about, anyway?

“Come along, Swan.”   Killian’s hand is suddenly on her arm, tugging her towards their cart, which is now laden with grocery bags.  “We’re holding up the line.”

With his usual efficiency, he’s bundled both her and their cart out into the parking lot before she’s even had time to feel guilty about letting him pay for all the food.  Once they’re outside, he looks at her, a smile playing about his lips.  “Fancy a cup of tea when we get home then, missus?”

“That depends.”  Deciding that two can play at this game, even if she doesn’t know what game they’re playing, she leans one hip against the cart, twisting her finger around the end of her ponytail as she meets his gaze.  She has no business flirting like this, not when she’s with someone else, but it’s as though she can’t stop herself.  “Are you prepared to share those chocolate cookies willingly,” she leans forward, knowing the low neckline of her sweater will slip even lower as she does, “or do I have to get tough with you?”

She stops talking then, because he’s blushing.  The man who has made casually bedding woman without batting an eyelid into an art form is blushing, his gaze carefully avoiding her cleavage, and it suddenly hits her.

He’s blushing because of _her_.  

This is bad.

This is one can of worms she should _not_ have opened, not when things are weird with Walsh, not when she’d already resigned herself long ago to the fact that Killian Jones was very much a ‘look but don’t touch’ person in her life.

Not when she’s still so stupidly in love with him that right now it feels like someone has reached into her chest and is twisting her heart.

“Um, maybe you should drive home,” she mutters, digging his car keys out of her purse.  Her fingers brush his as she hands them over, and she feels a tingle of sensation, as though static electricity is flickering along her skin.   Startled, she lifts her gaze to meet his, and she sees the same muted shock in his eyes.

_Jesus._ This is _very_ bad.

“As you wish, milady.”  He grips the handle of the cart with both hands, his gaze once again carefully averted. “Let’s go home.”

The return journey is mostly silent, and she’s never been so grateful for the collection of cheesy CDs he keeps in his car, the music filling the spaces where their words would normally be.

_Home,_ she thinks longingly.  It sounds good when he says it, making her feel as though their apartment is something that they truly share, a place she can always rely upon to always be there.  But this is real life, and things are never that simple.  David and Mary Margaret will want their own place sooner or later, and she’s known Killian way too long to think that he’s actually changed his tune about love and everything that goes along with it, like commitment.

She’s been looking for something that feels like home for as long as she can remember, and yet when Walsh had raised the issue of her moving into his place last night over dinner, she had felt as though she was suffocating.

(Maybe she and Killian are more alike than she likes to admit.)

She needs to talk to someone. Someone who will listen, someone who won’t let their own rose-colored glasses influence their judgment.  Someone who will tell her what they really think, instead of what they think she wants to hear.

In other words, she needs to talk to David, just like she always does when she’s considering doing something stupid.  Seriously, he should just change his name to Emma’s Sounding Board and be done with it.

“Thanks again for doing this,” she finally ventures as Killian pulls into their street, and her flashes her a relieved smile, as though he’s pleased she’s broken their conversational deadlock.

“It was my pleasure, Swan.”   He drives into their allocated parking space, giving her another wink as he shuts off the engine, and this time she feels it right down to the tips of her toes.  “Although I must admit, I’m secretly disappointed you didn’t have to get tough with me.”

If she’d thought she was doing a good job of flirting earlier, then the way he says those two words leaves her in the dust.  Coming from him, they sound almost obscene.  Her face suddenly hot and her palms damp, she literally cannot think of a single comeback.  Not that he really gives her the chance to speak, because he quickly unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door, slipping gracefully from the car to leave her sitting alone with her thoughts and the sinking realisation that once a particular can of worms has been opened, there’s no closing it back up again.

Long story short, she’s screwed.

The question now is, what the hell is she going to do about it?

 

~*~

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this would be where I start earning that “M” rating. Thanks so much for reading along and making this story so much fun to write. (Also, thanks for the lovely messages re the naughty plagiarist on ff.net helping themselves to one of my other stories. You’re all fabulous.)

~*~

A quick text message to David before they start unpacking the car brings forth the man himself, freshly arrived home from having brunch with his lovely companion and ready to help haul the numerous bags of groceries up to their fourth floor apartment.  Killian has to admit, he’s very glad to see him, and not just because of the bag-carrying assistance. “Thanks, mate.”

“My pleasure.”   David grins as he grabs several bags in each hand, clearly amused by this unusual turn of events.  “I have to tell you, we thought the text Emma sent earlier about you two going to the supermarket was a joke.”

“We got everything on Mary Margaret’s list,” Emma reassures him as she hands the last two bags to Killian, her gaze carefully avoiding his.  “Even those weird crackers that she’s suddenly decided she loves.”

“Those seaweed things?”  David wrinkles his nose.  “To be honest, I was hoping maybe you’d forgotten that particular item.”

The three of them make their way into the building and then into the elevator, Emma good-naturedly grousing the whole way.  “Seriously, I don’t know how you and Mary Margaret can actually enjoy doing this.” 

His hands full, David presses the button for the fourth floor with his elbow. “At least we’re not in a walk-up, right?”

“Perhaps next time we can borrow Mary Margaret’s quaint little shopping trolley on wheels,” Killian suggests and, although she’s currently refusing to look at him, he sees the smile flash across Emma’s face.  He suspects she’s dying to pull him up on his use of the word _trolley_ rather than _cart_ , and makes a mental note to slip as many Britishisms (as she so gleefully likes to call them) into his conversation as possible.

(He realises this could be classified as immature, but given the last few days, perhaps he might be forgiven for using every available weapon in his arsenal.)

Once they reach the apartment, they’re greeted warmly by Mary Margaret, who seems both delighted and confused that she doesn’t have to visit the supermarket this weekend.  She threads her arm through Emma’s as she inspects a carry bag filled with fruit, and Killian can’t help but envy their easy intimacy.  “You two did a great job.”  She steals a grape from the bag, her dimples flashing as she smiles at Emma.  “Maybe David and I should let you do it more often.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Emma shoots back before he can speak, gesturing towards him with one hand.  “Do you have any idea how long it takes this one to decide which loaf of bread is good enough to be allowed in the cart?”

It seems she’s forgotten that she’s trying to pretend he’s not there, and he hides a smile as he dumps the bags he’s carrying onto the kitchen table. “Well, I’ve always felt that there’s no point doing something unless you going to do itproperly, Swan.”

Leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, Emma sighs loudly as the other two begin to unpack the groceries in earnest.  “Slow doesn’t automatically mean better.”

“Well, that all depends on the context, don’t you think?” God help him, he knows he should bite his tongue, but surely he can’t be expected to ignore such a perfect opening.  “After all, why rush something when you can savor it?”

And just like that, they’re staring at each other and he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, because she’s looking at him as though he’s just made the most obscene suggestion she’s ever heard in her life and, underneath the polite double entendre, perhaps he has.

_Bloody hell_.

The clearing of a masculine throat makes him realise that their housemates appear to be observing proceedings as though they’re at a tennis match, looking from one side of the kitchen to the other.   “You guys want coffee?”

Her face pink, Emma turns away from him to smile at David.  “That would be great, thanks.”   With that, she picks up a carry bag of chilled goods and heads for the refrigerator, and Killian knows she’s just staged a tactical retreat.  Perhaps it’s time he did the same.

“Nothing for me, mate.”   He tosses his friend a smile. “I’ve got a date with my laptop.”

“Too much infor- _mation_ ,” sings Mary Margaret in an amused voice, and he thinks, not for the first time, that she truly is the walking embodiment of a school teacher.  Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Emma is listening to their conversation, and once again he can’t leave well enough alone.

“Far be it from me to disappoint you, milady,” he tells Mary Margaret as he passes her, reaching out and ruffling her hair, just the way he knows she hates.   “But I’m merely off to Skype with my brother.”

David laughs as he sets up a line of mugs on the counter next to the espresso machine.  “You should know by now that school teachers are naturally suspicious people.”   

Mary Margaret reaches out and pinches David’s backside, making him jump.  “Occupational hazard.”

The pair of them laugh, making doe-eyes at each other.  Emma shakes her head at them, then returns to reorganizing the shelves in the refrigerator, carefully avoiding looking in his direction. 

To be honest, it’s something of a relief to escape into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. 

It takes ten minutes or so for the blasted wifi to decide to behave itself, but finally he’s looking at his brother’s unshaven mug on the screen.  “Is that really you?”  Killian can literally feel the sarcasm humming across the great divide. “I was starting to think that you’d been picked up for drunk and disorderly behaviour again.”

Killian rolls his eyes.  “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”

Liam grins into the camera at his end.  “ _You_ wouldn’t let it go if _I_ was the one who’d been nicked for singing for singing songs from The Little Mermaid at three in the morning at the top of my lungs in a quiet suburban street.”

Killian sighs, briefly wishing he’d simply texted his brother rather than indulging in more elaborate technology. “That was Scarlet’s fault.”

His brother’s smile widens. “That’s odd, he’s always said it was yours.”

“That’s because he’s an untrustworthy git.”  Killian shifts against the mountain of pillows at his back, thinking that perhaps one day he’ll find a comfortable position to use this bloody laptop. “Now that we’ve gotten the usual pleasantries out of the way, how are you?”  He grins at his brother’s image on the screen.  “Has that beautiful wife of yours come to her senses yet and realised that she can do so much better?”

“Luckily for me, she values brains over brawn.”

They chat back and forth for a while, the usual easy, almost careless exchange that comes of living in each other’s pockets for the first twenty years of one’s existence. After Liam has dutifully emailed through new photos of James (his two year-old son) and Molly (the six month-old something-doodle puppy), he waggles an admonishing finger at Killian. “You really should come for a visit.  James will be applying for university places by the time you see him next.”

A pang of guilt twists through Killian’s chest. He brother’s right – it’s been far too long since they’ve seen each other in person. “Why don’t you lot come here instead?”

Liam shakes his head.  “You know we’d love to, but we’re going to visit Annie’s family in Scotland in February, and I don’t think I could wrangle any more time away from the office.”

“Bumped down the list in favour of the dreaded in-laws.” 

“Speaking of which, I take it you’re still gainfully employed?”

“Yes, and busier than ever. Thank God for the human race and their constant need to legally bind themselves to another person and then drag them through the court system when it all falls apart.”

Liam looks amused. “Still feeling superior to those of us who are brave enough to tie the knot?”  Killian says nothing, and his brother shakes his head at him.  “You’ll change your mind one day.” 

Killian opens his mouth to make his usual remark about fools and their independence soon being parted, but instead finds himself saying something quite different. “Perhaps.”

Liam stares at him through the computer screen for a beat, then he smiles. “You’ve met someone.”

He’d forgotten how irritatingly perceptive his older brother could be.  “No, I haven’t met someone. _”_ Technically, it’s the truth.  After all, he’s known Emma Swan since he was at university.

“I’ve been your big brother for twenty-nine years, Killian.”  On the other side of the world, Liam takes a sip of what looks like an energy drink.  “You really think I can’t tell when you’re talking through your arse?”

“Since when do you drink that rubbish?”

“Since my son turned two and began his reign of terror.”  Liam sighs.  “Sometimes, I think maybe I should just pour it in my coffee and be done with it.”

Killian laughs. “Well, that’s what you get for procreating, mate.”

His brother gives him a stern look he remembers only too well from their childhood.  “Nice attempt to divert the conversation, but let’s have it.”

_Bugger_.  Killian rubs his hand across his eyes before giving himself a mental shake. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?  Someone in whom he could confide about the mess he’s currently making of his personal life?   “It’s Emma.”

Liam’s eyes widen.  “I’m sorry, but did you just say _Emma_?

“Yes.”

“You’re seeing Emma.”

He hates that his brother looks so happy about this tidbit of information, given that he’s about to disappoint him. “No, she’s still dating that simian-faced entrepreneur.”

Confusion flickers briefly across his brother’s face, then he sighs.  “Right. So you haven’t actually gotten around to telling her you’ve been in love with her since the dawn of time.”

He winces at Liam’s blunt assessment. “Not as such, no.”

If Liam’s current expression had a name, Killian thinks, it would be something akin to _for fuck’s sake._ “Tell me, little brother. How is it that you have been capable of being upfront and honest with every other woman you’ve ever encountered but when it comes to Emma you turn into a stubborn idiot who can’t tell her how he feels about her to save himself?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Killian, I’m tired.”  Liam drags one hand through his hair, making the tousled curls stand on end. “Just tell me what’s actually going on with the pair of you.”

“You need to get yourself a haircut.”  Killian gestures towards his own head. “You’re starting to look like our Mum.”

His brother glares at him. “Just tell me before my demon spawn child wakes up and summons me to do his bidding, will you?”

He spends the next thirty minutes baring his soul to his brother.  All of it, from the drunken kiss, the inconvenient fact that Emma doesn’t remember it in the slightest, and finally to the strange tension that now seems to be simmering between them, despite her lapse in memory. 

Liam listens carefully, his chin propped up on his hand, long fingers drumming against his cheek. “Well, one thing’s clear.”

“And that is?”

His brother smiles. “You’re fucked, mate.”

Killian sighs. “I was afraid of that.”

~*~

As soon as the groceries are all stashed away, Mary Margaret looks at her watch and makes a sound of dismay.  “Darn it.”

David frowns, looking up from his coffee-making efforts.  “What’s up?”

Mary Margaret washes her hands at the sink, then dries them quickly. “I told Mom I’d call her at two, and it’s almost three.”  Picking up her phone, she presses a kiss to David’s cheek, then nods apologetically towards the china mug with the bright red apple on it.  “I might wait until later, if that’s okay.”

Listening, Emma smiles as she shoves the last of the carry bags onto the bottom shelf in the pantry.  Her friend’s mother is notoriously chatty, and sometimes the weekly phone call can go for over an hour.   David puts the apple mug to one side, and goes back to making coffee for himself and Emma.  “Good plan.  Wouldn’t want it to go cold.”

Phone in hand, Mary Margaret vanishes into the bedroom she shares with David, and Emma tries not to think about all the mother-daughter phone calls absent from her own life.  She’s been trying not to think about stuff like this ever since she can remember.  Most of the time, she succeeds.

Practice makes perfect, right?

When the coffee is ready (David insists on adding a sprinkle of chocolate to each mug), Emma takes her with a smile of thanks and a question. “Hey, wanna go up to the roof?”

It’s an odd request, but David doesn’t miss a beat.  _And this is why he’s her sounding board_ , she thinks. Or maybe he’s just noticed that she keeps glancing in the direction of Killian’s closed bedroom door and realised that she wants some privacy. “Sure.”

A few minutes later, they’re camped out at the wooden table in the outdoor spare that they officially share with the occupants of the other apartment on their floor.  The people in 4B are an elderly couple who don’t like using the stairs and an adult daughter who is never home, so they usually have it to themselves.  Just as well, Emma thinks, because she really doesn’t want her neighbours eavesdropping on her ridiculous personal problems.  She waits until David’s had time to take a few sips of his coffee, then takes a deep breath.  “It’s nice you’ve got the whole weekend off.”

Well, maybe there’s room for some more procrastination before she spills her guts.

“Sure is.”   He grins at her.  “Not that I don’t love my job-”

Emma laughs, thinking that she’d had exactly the same conversation with Mary Margaret the night before.  David’s job also involves dozens of unruly small creatures, but in his case, they have four legs rather than two.  From what she can tell, being the Director of Shelter Operations at the city’s animal rescue league is both physically and emotionally exhausting and David would literally have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of that place before he’d quit.  No wonder he and Mary Margaret were drawn to each other from the very beginning.  “Okay, here’s the thing. I need to get your perspective on something.”

“Of course.”

It’s a cool afternoon, and she finds herself cupping her hands around her coffee mug. Then again, maybe she’s still just stalling. “It’s personal stuff.”

Still just stalling, apparently.

David gives her an encouraging smile. “That’s fine.”

She takes another deep breath, then she looks at him.  “Walsh asked me to move in with him.”

“Again?”  David’s eyebrows quirk upwards. “Well, he’s not a quitter, I’ll say that for him.”   His smile fades as he looks at her.  “Okay, is this why we’re up here?  Are you going to break it to me gently that we need to find a replacement flatmate because you’re moving in with Walsh?”

And just like that, she feels that odd sense of not being able to breathe properly. “ _God,_ no.” 

David’s smile is a wry one, and he nods as he picks up his mug. “Ah.” 

She stares at him, wondering what the hell she did to be saddled with _two_ male flatmates who seem to be psychic when it comes to her. “What’s _ah_ mean?”

“I’m guessing that what you want to talk about is that you don’t _want_ to move in with Walsh, and that you’re annoyed at him for asking you again and with yourself because you think that you _should_ want to move with him.”

Emma shakes her head.  Every time she has this kind of conversation with David, it becomes more and more obvious how he and Mary Margaret had managed to meet, start dating and decide they’d found their one true love all in the space of a month.  Propping her elbows on the table, she puts her head in her hands and closes her eyes.  “What’s wrong with me?  Why can’t I ever just be happy with what I’ve got?”

David’s voice is gentle. “Because you’re human?”

“Seriously?”

She hears him laugh under his breath, then the feel of him awkwardly patting the top of her bowed head. “Emma, it’s okay if you don’t feel that moving in with Walsh is the best thing for you right now. Maybe you just need time-”

“No.”

It’s an emphatic denial, and it leaves her mouth without her even having to think about it.  She lifts her head to find David gazing at her with something that looks a lot like sympathy.  “You know, I think you already know what you want to do.  You want me to tell you that you’re not a bad person for doing it.”

She stares at him, anxiety clenching in the pit of her belly, because she is suddenly afraid that he knows how she feels about Killian, that maybe Mary Margaret knows as well, and if they know, then what’s to stop Killian from working it out as well?  “You’ll have to clue me in, then, because right now I have no freaking idea what I want to do.”

David hesitates, as though he doesn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, then huffs out a soft sigh.  “Okay, here goes.  Have you considered that maybe the reason you keep saying no when Walsh asks you to move in with him is that you might slowly be coming to the conclusion that he isn’t the man of your dreams?”

“But I never-”Horrified at the words that are about to spill from her tongue, she breaks off, biting her bottom lip. “Fuck.”

That same sympathy flickers across her friend’s face once again. “You were going to say that you never thought he was.”

She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms, as if that might stop the words that are on a loop in her head.  It doesn’t work, and there’s no point in hiding the truth from David, not when she’s the one who dragged him up here to talk.  “Yeah, I was.”

“Which is fine if you’re just dating,” he begins, and she finishes the sentence, her voice flat even to her own ears.

“But not if things have gotten to the point where you’re talking about living together.”  She takes another sip of coffee without really tasting it (she won’t tell David. He’s very proud of his barista skills) and knows he’s right.

“To be fair,” David says carefully, “only one of you seems to be talking about it.”

She buries her nose in her coffee mug, hating herself a little more when she thinks of Walsh’s hopeful smile when he’d broached the subject last night. “Hmm.”

“Living together can be hard work,” David goes on, and Emma shoots him an envious smile. 

“You and Mary Margaret make it look easy.

He looks pleased by her comment, maybe even a little smug. “That’s because we work hard to be open and honest with each other, every day that we’re together.”

The unabashed pride in his voice makes her throat tighten.  She’s almost thirty, and sometimes she thinks she’ll never get her life together the way these two have done.  “So, I guess one day you and Mary Margaret will decide it’s time to live by yourselves like real grownups?  If you guys had a house, you could actually start bringing home all those strays I know you’ve been dying to bring home for the last five years.” 

He chuckles, then drains his coffee cup.  “It’s not on the agenda at the moment, but one day, sure.”  He grins.  “You and Killian will have to flip a coin for the big bedroom after we’ve gone.” 

Emma feels a wave of heat wash across her face and down her throat, lodging itself somewhere in the middle of her chest.  When she says nothing, David gives her a searching look.  “Or maybe an arm-wrestling challenge might be more your style?”

“Maybe.”   She pushes back her chair, the urge to flee suddenly overwhelming her. Her coffee’s gone cold, but she doesn’t care.  This conversation has just skated way too close to the edge as far as she’s concerned, and it’s officially time for her to escape to her room.  “Anyway, thanks for the chat, I really appreciate-”

“Emma.”  David’s hand is gentle on her wrist, stopping her from picking up his empty coffee mug.  “Is something wrong?”

She gives him a smile she’s sure looks just as fake as it feels. “I just told you.”

His expression is almost one of fatherly concern, and _that’s_ not weird at all. “You know, I don’t think you did.”

Gently shaking off his hand, she picks up both coffee mugs, then gets to her feet. “I’m fine, I swear.”

David gazes at her intently, as if trying to see beneath the surface of her words, then shakes his head.  “To be honest, between you stressing over Walsh and Killian coming home alone on a Friday night and then actually agreeing to go _grocery shopping_ with you, I’m starting to wonder if the building management has put something in the water.”

Emma’s stomach flips over.  _Time to go,_ she thinks in faint desperation, but she’s too late.  She sees the moment it connects in his mind, the instant David puts two and two together and comes up with –

“You and Killian?”

“ _No_.”  She starts to walk away, clutching the freaking coffee mugs to her chest like a shield. 

Behind her, she hears the scrape of David’s chair as he scrambles to his feet. “Oh, but it all makes sense now.”

Her pulse is racing, and despite the cool afternoon air, she’s pretty sure she’s sweating. “There is no me and Killian.”

“Maybe not officially.”  He catches up to her when she reaches the door to the stairwell.  “But that’s it, isn’t it?”

Defeat suddenly washing over her, she slumps against the door and glares at him, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.  “What do you want me to say?”

He smiles at her, his blue eyes wide.  “The truth will set you free, my friend.”

She tries to keep the heat in her glare, but she’s fighting a losing battle.  “You and I both know I’m not his type.”

David laughs.  He actually throws his head back and laughs, and if she didn’t love him and Mary Margaret like they were family, she’d punch him right in the face.  “I’m sorry, are you serious?”

To her dismay, she can feel her eyes growing hot, the distant pressure of frustrated tears prickling. “Look, my life is complicated enough without pining after someone who has made it _extremely_ clear over the years that they are _not_ interested, okay?”

David is shaking his head at her now, his hands gentle as he takes the coffee cups from her grip.  “Are we talking about the same Killian Jones?  The vocabulary-abusing neat-freak who rents the smallest bedroom?”  He dips his head, catching Emma’s gaze with his.  “The same Killian Jones who can’t seem to ever take his eyes off you whenever you’re in the same room? That Killian Jones?”

Her mouth doesn’t actually fall open, but it’s a close thing.  “I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“I agree,” he says cheerfully, then ruins it by adding, “you should be having it with _him._ ”

“I don’t think so.” Panic flares through her at the thought. “And don’t you _dare_ say anything to him. Or to Mary Margaret,” she tacks on, knowing that demanding the latter is probably asking for the impossible.  

_Shit, shit, shit._

Her hands now free, she opens the door to the stairwell and begins a hasty descent, not looking to see if the door swings shut in David’s face.  It does, but that doesn’t stop her from hearing him calling out in a sing-song voice.  “I won’t tell anyone, I promise, but remember, Emma, the truth will set you _free_!”

~*~

After his less-than-helpful chat with his brother, Killian wastes an hour or so on the internet, then decides he’s once again fit for company.  When he emerges from his bedroom, he finds David alone, watching some trashy reality show involving police car chases.  “The women abandoned you, mate?”

David raises a half-drunk bottle of beer in a toast.  “They’ve gone for a run.”

Killian ducks into the kitchen to grab a beer for himself, then sprawls on the opposite couch. “How disgustingly energetic of them.”

His friend chuckles.  “I suspect there will be as much talking as there is running, if not more.”   He turns, fixing Killian with a steady blue stare.  “No plans tonight?”

Killian shrugs.  He’s left it too late to call any of the women he’s been casually seeing over the last few months, and he’s not in the mood for Victor two nights in a row.  “Not really.”

“Not interested in double dating with Victor and his new waitress?”  David’s ill-concealed scorn makes him grin.  Thanks to their old college friend’s single date with Mary Margaret, it seems that Victor Whale will never stop being a sore point as far as David’s concerned.

“God, no.”  Killian takes a swing of beer, watching disinterestedly as a stolen car rams through a police barricade on the television screen.  “I thought I might catch a movie.”

“Alone?”

The disbelief in David’s voice brings out his defensive streak. “It’s been done before, mate, I assure you.”

As always, his friend is quick to smooth things over. “I know, it’s just that you’re usually-”

David breaks off, but Killian knows what he was going to say.  He’s usually with a woman.  Usually sleeping in someone else’s bed.  Usually out carousing until the wee hours of the morning. “I’m giving myself a few nights off from all that nonsense.”

_Something_ flashes across his friend’s face, then vanishes just as quickly.  “Maybe the four of us could do something.”

Killian looks at the other man, but sees nothing but David’s usual good-natured expression.  “Anything particular in mind?”

David sips at his own beer. “There’s a new seafood place opened down on the pier that we thought we’d like to try.” 

Killian stares unseeing at the television.  He’s sorely tempted, but a whole evening once again dealing with the fact that Emma has no idea that she’s turned his life upside down?  If he were sensible, he’d err on the side of caution and do his best to avoid Emma until he can get his head (and the rest of his bloody body) sorted.  “Sounds good.”

Obviously, he’s never been very sensible when it comes to Emma Swan.

David sends a text to Mary Margaret, who replies that dinner sounds good and that Emma has no other plans so please reserve a table for four.   As David searches for the number of the restaurant, he darts Killian an odd glance.  “Weird for Emma to be free on a Saturday night.”

“Perhaps Walsh’s little furniture shop requires his attention,” Killian mutters, not realising the venom in his voice until it’s too late, and he finds himself scratching behind his ear in that damned nervous tick as he hastens to cancel out his telling remark.  He’s always been very careful to keep his dislike of Walsh to himself, but it seems a few cracks are starting to show. “I mean, I can only imagine how demanding work can be when you’re your own boss.”

“Hmmm.”  David might seem engrossed in tapping the phone number onto his screen, but Killian sees the knowing smirk curving his mouth.  “Anyone would think that you didn’t like the man.”  Whoever is manning the front desk of the new seafood place on the pier answers the phone, and Killian seizes the chance to make his escape.

“I might nab the bathroom before the others get home,” he mutters, collecting both empty beer bottles and dumping them into the recycling, easily making his exit while David is busy making the reservation. 

Once again, the bathroom exhaust fan doesn’t appear to be working (honestly, what does the building super actually _do_ around here?), and the room rapidly fills with steam.  He cranks up the hot water as high as he can stand it, letting it run over the tense knots in his neck and shoulders.  Too much time sitting at an office desk and not enough time exercising, he thinks unhappily as he cricks his neck to one side. Perhaps he should have joined Emma and Mary Margaret on their run.

Then again, he hadn’t been invited to join them, so that may have proved awkward.

On a completely shallow note, he’s sorry he missed their exit.  Mary Margaret Blanchard is an extremely attractive woman, but the sight of Emma Swan in exercise gear never fails to render him speechless. 

Accepting defeat, he closes his eyes, leaning back against the tiled wall as he reaches down to take himself in hand, so to speak. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s had a wank over Emma Swan, and it definitely won’t be the last, but it’s the first time since she’d kissed him.  Pushed him up against that vanity, her body plastered to his from neck to knee and snogged him so thoroughly that it had been a miracle he hadn’t embarrassed himself on the spot.  

If they’d been sober, he wouldn’t have hesitated.  He would have spun her around until she’d been the one pressed against the vanity, those long legs around his hips.  He would have pulled up her shirt to kiss those glorious breasts until she begged him to touch her.  He would have slipped his hand down her pants, touching the slick flesh between her legs until she gasped and shook in his arms, biting at his mouth as she gripped his arse, pulling him hard against her until his aching cock was pressed right where they both needed more -

_Fuck._

Bracing one hand on the shower screen, he swears beneath his breath as he comes, his cock pulsing in his slippery grasp, his hips arching helplessly away from the damp tiles.  

_Well,_ he thinks wryly afterwards as he leans, still panting, against the shower wall, _that must be a new land speed record._ It appears that knowing _exactly_ how Emma Swan kisses has added extra spice to his imagination, not that he needed much help in that department.

Drying himself off, he scowls at the broken overhead exhaust once again.  The bathroom is still filled with steam, making wiping the condensation off the mirror a study in futility.   Wrapping his towel around his waist, he opens the door a crack and listens carefully.  The only thing he can hear is that police car chase reality show David is obviously still watching, which informs him that the others haven’t returned from their run on two fronts.  Firstly, both women hate reality television with a passion and are brutal in their vanquishing of any sign of it, and secondly, they’re never exactly quiet when they arrive home from a run. 

With the door open, the steam soon evaporates, and he’s actually able to see in the mirror.  He’s just finished towelling his hair dry when he hears the sound of bare feet on the floorboards and a very familiar voice mutter, “Shit, sorry.”

“Hang on, love, it’s my fault.” He whips the towel away from his head to see Emma, resplendent in her black exercise tights and the smallest t-shirt he’s ever seen, her face flushed.  “Sorry, but that blasted exhaust fan is stuffed again,” he tells her, his pulse skipping several beats when he realises she’s trying very hard not to look at him and making a bloody terrible job of it.   “It was like a Turkish bathhouse in here, so I opened the door.”

“I didn’t mean to barge in on you.” She hesitates, one foot still off the floor, and he’s reminded of a wildlife documentary he watched recently, a doe caught in a moment of indecision, deciding whether or not she needed to flee for her own safety. 

“No need for apologies, love.” He hangs the towel he’d used to dry his hair on the nearest hook, then rubs one palm over his beard, conscious of her eyes following his every movement.  “Any man worth his salt would appreciate having someone as lovely as your good self barge in on them.”

She flushes, the colour in her cheeks no longer able to be attributed to her recent exercise, and he feels a tiny thrill of triumph.  “Just so you know, I’m not in the habit of following men into bathrooms,” she shoots back, then stops, her green gaze narrowing as she stares at him.  “This is so weird. Have we had this conversation before?”

His heart seems to have leapt into his throat.  “Why?”

She frowns, tugging at the bottom of the tiny t-shirt she’s wearing, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest and shoulders. “Never mind.” Her pale throat works as she swallows hard and, despite his recent release beneath the shower, he literally feels his body temperature start to rise. 

Time for yet another tactical retreat, he decides, before his lack of clothing betrays him completely.  Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t fire another salvo before he leaves.  “Bathroom’s all yours, love.”  

“Thanks.” She moves to one side as he gets to the door, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing the faint sheen of perspiration on her chest or that she smells like perfume and sunshine and knowing that if he pressed his mouth to the back of her neck, she’d taste like salt. 

Her pupils darken as he brushes past her, his gaze never leaving her face.  “It gets pretty steamy in here, Swan.”  He lets himself look at her soft mouth, then gives himself a mental slap, because he’s supposed to be retreating, not digging a bigger hole for himself.  “If you wish to leave the door open while you bathe, don’t be bashful on _my_ account.”

Her lips part on a silent reply, her breathing hitching as she stares at him, her lashes fluttering dark and heavy.  Her hands are curled at her sides, and he feels the path of her gaze down his chest and stomach as surely as if she’s touching him.  And then she pinches him, right between the third and fourth ribs, and he yelps loudly, clutching at his towel.  “Bloody hell!”

She smiles at him sweetly, the light of triumph gleaming in her eyes, and he thinks that he’s never been more aroused in his life. “Thanks for the tip, but I don’t need showering advice from someone who frequents Turkish bathhouses.” 

God, she’s a marvel.

He’s still grinning when he reaches his bedroom, his towel still thankfully in place, the sound of the bathroom door being slammed still ringing in his ears.  He’ll have a bruise on his side tomorrow, but it’s a badge of honour he’ll gladly wear. 

Now all he has to do is get through an evening of polite conversation in an upmarket restaurant with their closest friends and not let his face show how much he wants to drag her into the nearest storage cupboard and beg her to have her wicked way with him.

Scrubbing his hands through his still-damp hair, he perches on the edge of his bed.  That’s tonight sorted, but what about tomorrow?  And the days and weeks and months after that?  How long can he keep doing this, wanting so much more and yet trying to convince himself he’s content with the current status quo? 

His gaze falls on his phone, sitting on his bedside table, and something tightens deep in his chest.  With one well-timed swipe of his thumb, he could turn more than one life upside down.   Then again, he could also delete the bloody photo, accept that he’s playing a mug’s game and find somewhere else to live, somewhere that doesn’t make him feel as though he’s constantly walking a razor’s edge of lust and guilt and longing.

He sighs, then trudges to his closet to find something suitable (ie, Mary Margaret-approved) to wear, wondering darkly what would best project the illusion that he’s not in love with Emma Swan in any way, shape or form.  He suspects he’d need a bloody invisibility cloak to pull off such a feat.

He grins at the nonsensical thought as he pulls out his favourite black shirt.  While he’s at it with the whole wizarding business, perhaps he could turn Walsh into a flying monkey and send him packing back to Oz.  Thinking of Emma’s unhappy face when she’d arrived home on Thursday night (the night of her cancelled date and subsequent vodka shots), he decides that in the absence of magic, he’d settle for punching the monkey-faced prick in the face.

Until that glorious day, however, he shall content himself with the undeniable fact that not only is _he_ the one going to dinner with Emma this evening, but that it’s only a matter of time before she remembers at least _something_ of their drunken kiss.  He’s seen the flashes of recollection in her eyes twice now, and while he’s unbearably tempted to help her along, he’d much prefer if she remembered in her own time.

He’s waited this long (God, he truly doesn’t want to think how many years the thought of her has been wedged in his heart) and he can certainly bide his time a while longer. If history has shown nothing else, it’s proven that when it comes to Emma Swan, he’s a very patient man. 

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again so much for reading along, and let me just say two things: this is a slow burn fic with a capital S and a capital B, and I’m a firm believer in happy endings. Eventually.

~*~

They reach the midway point in their usual running loop before Mary Margaret gives in to her curiosity. “Not that I don’t appreciate the chance to work off the second serving of bacon I had at brunch this morning,” she huffs as they hit the long straight of the riverside walkway, “but you want to tell me why running was suddenly the most urgent thing on today’s agenda?”

Emma matches her pace to the other woman’s, reining in the impulse to run hell for leather until her lungs are fit to bursting.  “It was either this or punch something.”

Her friend’s laugh is breathless. “Or some _one_ , it sounds like.”  Emma says nothing (she’s already said _way_ too much to David) and she feels Mary Margaret’s glance lingering on her. “Well, I can’t think of what David and I might have done to provoke such a thing, so I guess we’re talking about Walsh.”

Emma doesn’t bother correcting her.  Her relationship with Walsh is a safer topic than what’s really troubling her. “He asked me to move in with him.”

“Again? What did you say?”  Before Emma can say a word, Mary Margaret answers her own question.  “Let me guess, you said no.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, Emma-”

Emma pulls up, abruptly too hot and irritated and in danger of considering punching something all over again.  Putting her hands on her hips, she sucks in a few lungfuls of air and gives her friend a heated look.  “Oh, Emma, _what_?”

Mary Margaret leans on the metal railing that separates the running track from the riverbank, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead.  “You know that man adores you.”

Emma walks a few paces back and forth, as much to shake off a sudden feeling of restlessness as to keep her leg muscles from stiffening up. “So he tells me.”

The other woman frowns. “But?”

“Saying it is one thing.”  Squelching the flicker of disloyalty that ripples through her (something she’s become worryingly good at it over the last few days), Emma puts both hands on the top rung of the railing and stretches until her arm muscles twinge, wishing she could rid herself of the tightness in her throat as easily.  “Actually making me _feel_ like he does is another.”

She doesn’t mention the increasing number of cancelled plans and his phone beeping with incoming texts in the middle of the night every time she sleeps at his apartment.  Nor does she mention that they haven’t had sex in a month, because that is _not_ a conversation she wants to have with anyone. 

Not even with Walsh, apparently.

Mary Margaret’s smile is gentle, despite the faint exasperation in her eyes.  “Last night you told me that you were happy with the way things were going with Walsh.”

Emma hesitates, feeling as though she’s about to step out onto an icy sidewalk, with a fifty-fifty chance of falling flat on her face.  “I may have exaggerated a little.”   Before her friend can reply, Emma pushes herself away from the railing and jerks her head towards the direction in which they usually run.  “Come on, let’s get this damned run over and done with.”

Mary Margaret’s mouth flattens into a straight line, a sure sign that she’s trying very hard not to blurt out something she’ll regret.  To Emma’s relief, the sound of her friend’s phone buzzing distracts them both.   The other woman disentangles her phone from the gadget she’s got strapped around her bicep, smiling when she looks at the screen.  “It’s from David.”

“What a shock,” Emma teases as she starts to walk slowly, doing her best not to jump to any unwanted conclusions as to exactly what David might be telling his girlfriend.   

“Hush.” Mary Margaret trails behind her, obviously engrossed in what she’s reading.  “Oh, David and Killian want to try that new seafood place on the pier tonight.”  She looks up with a hopeful grin as Emma narrowly avoids tripping over her own feet at this new development. “That sounds nice, don’t you think?”

Emma stares at her. She has no idea whose idea it was to go to dinner, but either way, there’s a giant red flag being hoisted in her mind. “I’m not really in the mood.”

Mary Margaret raises one well-shaped eyebrow at her.  “I thought you said you didn’t have any plans.”

“Walsh has meetings with a couple of new importers tonight,” Emma grudgingly admits as she steps up her pace, forcing her friend to play catch-up. 

“Don’t you want a nice, relaxing evening with your best friends?”  Mary Margaret bumps her shoulder against Emma’, her tone politely wheedling.  “Nice food, nice wine, no boyfriend-related tension?”

Emma’s not in the habit of lying to this woman, and she really doesn’t want to start now, but she is _not_ telling Mary Margaret just how off the mark she is with the whole tension thing.  She jogs along in silence for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of having to deal with the weirdness between her and Killian versus the prospect of spending some quality time with her friends. 

It’s been ages since the four of them have been anywhere fancier than their local burrito bar together, and it’s not as though she and Killian will be alone.  In the end, the twin desires to eat food prepared by an actual chef and not spend the night hiding out in her bedroom win out.  “Sure, why not.”

The feeling of stepping out onto an icy sidewalk returns with a vengeance as soon as the words leave her mouth, but Mary Margaret is already dashing off a reply and it’s too late to change her mind now.

_Shit._

Text message sent, her friend slips her phone back into place on her arm strap, then shoots Emma a knowing grin.  “Do you need to work off that punching impulse some more, or can we start our loop back now?”

Emma hesitates.  She still feels pent-up and restless, but there’s no point in exhausting herself if she’s expected to go to dinner and do adult things like make conversation.  “Nothing wrong with a thorough cool down,” she finally says, and Mary Margaret blows out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness.”  Changing direction, they begin to retrace their steps, their pace brisk but not enough to keep them from talking.  “I had visions of falling asleep in my clam chowder.”

As they walk, they talk about Mary Margaret’s students and the Dalmatian puppy that David’s fallen in love with at the shelter, and whether or not they should drive to dinner or catch a cab.  Not once does her friend mention Walsh, and Emma is grateful, because if she has any more guilt eating away at her insides, she has the feeling that dinner is going to be wasted on her.  Five minutes from their apartment, they fall into a companionable silence, and Emma finds her mind drifting in the same damned direction all over again. 

_The Killian Jones who can’t seem to take his eyes off you whenever you’re in the room?  That Killian Jones?_

David had laughed when she’d told him that she wasn’t Killian’s type.  Laughed in her face.  She knows the two men have been friends for a long time, and out of all of them, David probably knows Killian best, but still –

If she’s his type, she thinks with a sudden stab of resentment, why the hell hasn’t he ever said anything?  This is the guy she’s seen seduce complete strangers at a bar with nothing more than a smile and a wink and a comment on the weather.  He’s not lacking in the confidence department, and God knows they’ve spent enough time in each other’s pockets over the years.  It’s not possible that he’d be worried about offending her, because she learned a long time ago that his ego was Teflon-coated.  He would have had no trouble bouncing back if she’d rebuffed him.

The whole situation is as much depressing as it is unsettling and God, she has _got_ to get out of her own head before she drives herself mad.  “What time is dinner?”

“Seven.” Mary Margaret presses the button for the elevator, then pulls up her shirt to wipe her face. “God, I’m out of shape,” she mutters. “I didn’t think it was possible to sweat this much in November.”

Emma grins.  Her friend is one of the most health-conscious people she knows, even if she can never bring herself to eat any of the apples that her more traditional students present to her. “You’re just out of practice,” she reassures her, and Mary Margaret gives her a little bow as they step into the elevator. 

“Sounds good to me.”  The other woman hits the button for the fourth floor. “If anyone asks, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

After a congratulatory high-five in the hallway, they part company. One of the best things about this apartment is the fact that both showers can be used at the same time (seriously, she’s lived in places where you couldn’t even use _one_ at the same time) and Emma is very glad, because she’s sticky and sweaty and in no mood to hang around waiting to take a shower.  She pays a quick trip to her bedroom, dumping her trainers and socks, then spends a moment trying to find her robe before remembering she’d left it hanging on the back of the bathroom door this morning. 

David is nowhere to be seen, but the crappy reality show he’d been watching when they left is still blaring from the flat screen.  Emma rolls her eyes, deciding Mary Margaret can fight that particular battle today, and heads for the bathroom she shares with Killian.

Too late, she notices the steam and the familiar scent of shower gel ( _get the one in the black bottle, Swan, I’m not using that pink nonsense)_ and pulls up short just inside the bathroom door, her vision suddenly swimming with the sight of her housemate, still damp from the shower and wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist, roughly drying his hair.  “Shit, sorry.”

At the sound of her voice, he freezes. “Hang on, love, it’s my fault,” he blurts out, his voice muffled by the smaller towel draped over his head. He pulls it away with a jerk of one hand, his gaze instantly finding hers. “Sorry, but that blasted exhaust fan is stuffed again. It was like a Turkish bathhouse in here, so I opened the door.”

Emma stares at him, one word bouncing around in her head.

_Nope._

She needs to back out of this room, right now, but the soles of her feet seem to be glued to the tiles.  It’s not as though she’s never seen him without his shirt before.  They’ve lived in the same apartment for months now, but it’s always been fleeting glimpses, just enough to hint at the existence of a nicely muscled chest and decent abs and broad shoulders. This isn’t a fleeting glimpse, though.  This is different. 

This makes her fingers tingle with the urge to touch him. 

It makes her want to brush her lips against the curve of his shoulder, swipe the last droplets of water from his skin with her tongue.  It makes her want to trail her hand down his chest and stomach, watch his pupils dilate as she traces the line of soft hair downwards from his navel to where the towel is slung low on his hips.

She can barely stand to look at the jut of his hipbones and the curve at the base of his spine. Even his knees are worth staring at, she thinks despairingly.

_Fuck._

She finally manages to find her voice. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”  

“No need for apologies, love.” As he hangs the smaller towel on the nearest hook, the muscles in his back and arm shift tantalisingly. When he peers at his reflection and scrubs one hand over his whiskered jaw, she finds herself staring at his chest and stomach, her mouth literally going dry, and _God,_ she is beyond screwed here. “Any man worth his salt would appreciate having someone as lovely as your good self barge in on them.”

Somewhere amidst the lingering steam and the mortified flush that’s heating her face, she hears the compliment he’s just paid her, and that only makes it worse. “Just so you know, I’m not in the habit of following men into bathrooms.”  

He raises one dark eyebrow in a silent challenge of this statement, which makes no sense, and she glares at him where he’s lounging so casually near the vanity, the bright overhead light making his eyes look ridiculously blue -

Wait.

_I hate you sometimes._

What the hell?

“This is so weird,” she mutters, frowning. “Have we had this conversation before?”

His gaze sweeps over her, from her ponytailed hair right down to her bare feet, lingering over her exercise gear-covered breasts and butt in a way that he’s got no fucking business doing, except that she doesn’t want him to stop.  “Why?”

The intensity of his gaze makes her feel as though she’d already stripped off her clothes before coming into the bathroom and had just forgotten about it. “Never mind.” Her mouth is bone dry, but she can’t blame the run, not any more. 

He smiles, his teeth white against the darkness of his beard. “Bathroom’s all yours, love.”  

“Thanks.” This room is usually more than adequate when it comes to space, but it suddenly feels very cramped, especially as he strolls towards her, still dressed in that fucking towel and nothing else.

There’s a gleam of amusement in his bright eyes, as if he knows he’s pissing her off and is enjoying it thoroughly. “It gets pretty steamy in here, Swan.”  His gaze drops to her mouth, and it’s all she can do not to lick her lips.  _Jesus._ “If you wish to leave the door open while you bathe, don’t be bashful on  _my_  account.”

She stares at him, her pulse doing a frenzied dance. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to simply walk out of the bathroom without trying to push every single one of her buttons, and David’s words begin to ring in her ears once again.

 _He can’t take his eyes off you._  

She looks at his smirking mouth, at the dimples that flirt with his stubbled cheeks and the mischief dancing in his eyes, then decides it’s time for her to readdress the balance of power.  She lets herself look her fill for five whole seconds, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest and shoulders, letting herself imagine all that lean muscle and crisp dusting of hair beneath her palms (or scraping against her breasts, _God,_ she _has_ to get him out of here before she does something she’s not sure she’ll regret) then lifts her hand to touch him.

He grows absolutely still, his eyes dark as he stares at her.  She pinches his side, hard, grabbing a generous measure of damp, smooth skin between her thumb and finger, and he literally jumps on the spot. “Bloody hell!”

It probably says something about her that she _really_ enjoys the shock that sweeps across his face, but she’s not sure she cares.  Giving him her most sickly sweet smile, she nods towards the open door. “Thanks for the tip, but I don’t need showering advice from someone who frequents Turkish bathhouses.” 

His grin widens, as though he couldn’t be happier to have just been assaulted and insulted in quick succession.  He ducks his head, scratching the back of his neck with one hand, the other tightly securing the towel around his waist, then slips out of the room, leaving her with the very real urge to go after him and see if David is right.

_Shit._

She slams the bathroom door shut. She’s never cheated on anyone in her life, and she’s not about to start tonight.

But God, she _wants_ to, very much, and what kind of terrible person does that make _her_?  David would say it would just make her human, but Emma knows that it would make her someone she really doesn’t want to be. She has the sinking feeling that a ‘very big fork in the road’ moment is coming her way, and the thought makes her want to throw an overnight bag into the backseat of the Bug and just drive and drive and drive until she doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

It’s been a while since she allowed herself to imagine running away, and it suddenly frightens her that the impulse is still lurking so closely beneath the surface of her life.

Shaking her head, she steps into the shower stall, and is instantly regaled with the scent of Killian’s shower gel.  Her belly clenches, making her annoyed with herself all over again, because she is _not_ in the habit of getting all breathless over the smell of liquid soap from the supermarket, no matter how good it smells when it’s applied to a particular person’s skin.

She makes the water temperature tepid, not wanting to have to deal with the room full of steam (there’s no way she’s cracking open that door, not even an inch), and starts to wash her hair. She could run away, or she could get her shit together and go to dinner like an adult.

Okay, an adult who will spend the whole night pretending she’s not thinking about what her platonic housemate looks like when he’s wearing nothing more than a towel, but _still_ an adult. She thinks again of how droplets of water had clung to the smooth skin of his shoulders, and scrubs at her scalp a little harder than necessary.

Seriously, she’s never hated being an adult more.

 

~*~

“Um, where’s Mary Margaret?”

Killian looks up from his book to see Emma hovering behind the opposite couch to where he’s sprawled, resplendent in a dark grey dress that reminds him of a costume from that 1960’s show about advertising and bed-hopping.  “I believe she and David are still ensconced in their room.”  

He should put more effort into pretending he’s not admiring the picture she makes, but the tender spot on his ribs where she’d pinched him earlier appears to be acting as a talisman, strangely enough. He’d been too much of a gentleman to suggest such a thing at the time, but it _had_ occurred to him that she’d seemed to have trouble keeping her hands off him, and had resorted to mild violence as a diversion.  “May I be of assistance?”

She presses her lips (dark rose-coloured and shiny tonight) together, then shakes her head.  “It’s okay, I’ll wait.”

Putting his book aside, he belatedly notices that her dress isn’t sitting quite right across her shoulders, the scooped neckline sagging where it should be fitted against her marvellous breasts.  More telling is the fact that she’s got both arms behind her back, obviously trying to do up her zipper. “One time offer, Swan, free of charge.”

She shoots him a fiery green glare across the living room, then elegantly stomps towards him, the heels of her shoes clicking on the floorboards. “Fine.”    When she reaches where he’s sitting, she puts her hands on her hips and gives him a baleful stare.  “I hate to break it to you, but you’re gonna have to stand up.”

He makes a show of getting to his feet, enjoying the way her dimpled chin lifts in silent challenge.  “The things I do for you, love.”

“Just do up the damned zipper, okay?”  She turns her back on him, and he sucks in his breath, because he wasn’t expecting the zipper in question to be _quite_ so long or the sides of her dress to be gaping _quite_ so much.  His gaze sweeps down the supple length of her spine, from the nape of her neck to the delicious curve at the small of her back, greedily memorising the sight of her pale, smooth skin, lightly dusted with freckles like a constellation of stars.  “Sometime today would be good, Jones.”

Knowing he’s his own worst enemy and that there is no time for him to indulge in a cold shower before dinner, he still takes another few precious seconds to admire the dark sheen of her black undergarments against her skin, then clears his throat. “Sorry, love, but you can’t blame a man for admiring the view.”

He doesn’t have to see her expression to know that she’s annoyed.  “And this would be why I always wait for Mary Margaret,” she mutters darkly as he takes hold of the zipper tab and slowly starts to draw it upwards. “Just get on with it, would you?”

His own worst enemy, indeed, because (like the fool that he is) he lets his knuckles brush against her spine, and the sharp hitch in her breathing sends a rush of heat straight to his groin as surely as if she’d moaned a soft sigh into his ear.  “It’s like I said earlier, Swan.”  God help him, he sounds as though he’s just polished off a packet of smokes and a bottle of rum. “Why rush when you can savour?”

She stands absolutely still while he finishes the task, but he hears her breathing, shallow and rapid.  Her perfume teases his nose, cinnamon and oranges and flowers, and the long length of her throat once again taunts him, thanks to the upswept arrangement of her hair.  He wants to catalogue and file away every single tiny detail of her, but there’s not enough time.  When the zipper is finally completely fastened, she steps away without speaking, and he lets his hands fall to his side, lest he do something even more foolish and slide them over the curve of her hips and pull her back towards him. 

“Thanks.”  Her reply is short, almost sharp, tossed over her shoulder without looking at him, and it’s only when she stalks from the living room in the direction of her bedroom that he realises he’s been holding his breath. 

 _Bloody hell._ Closing his eyes, he tugs at his own zipper, adjusting the suddenly too-tight fit of his trousers. His brother was, unfortunately, painfully correct in his earlier assessment.  When it comes to Emma Swan, he is utterly and irreversibly _fucked_ , and not in a good way.

Emma doesn’t reappear until Mary Margaret and David have emerged from their bedroom, bringing to mind the term ‘safety in numbers’.   Even then, she hovers behind them, carefully avoiding looking in his direction.  It’s only when David raises the subject of how they’re getting to the restaurant, prompting him to volunteer to drive, that she acknowledges he’s still in the room.  “We can take my car.”

Three heads turn to look at him, surprised, but it’s Mary Margaret who voices what they’re obviously thinking.  “Are you _sure_?”

He knows there’s no malicious intent in her words, but he still feels their subtle sting.  Of course it’s not like him.  He’s usually the one lingering at the table, long after the wait staff clearly wish to close up for the night, trying to convince everyone to sing sea shanties.  “I’ve been imbibing a little too much even for my tastes lately, love.”   He grabs his car keys from the coffee table, then checks his pockets for his wallet and phone, more to give himself something to do that doesn’t involve trying to catch Emma’s eye.  “I’m more than content to be the sober chauffer this evening.”

David claps his hands together, obviously growing weary of the dithering taking place.  “Excellent.  Let’s go.”

Emma ends up in the front passenger seat beside him by default, their resident lovebirds staking their claim to the back seat as soon as they reach his car.  “You realise it’s your job to choose the music, Swan,” he tells her as he puts the car into reverse, having finally torn his gaze away from the way the skirt of her dress slithers over hers knees as she crossed her legs. “With the front seat comes great responsibility.”

“You are such a geek,” she mutters, rolling her eyes at his superhero reference, but he sees the corners of her rose-coloured mouth lift in a quick smile.  “Don’t suppose you have any CDs from _this_ decade in the car?”

He flashes her a grin, feeling something palpable click into place when she actually meets his gaze. “Not as such, no.”

With that, she presses the button for the radio, and the car fills with trance (or whatever the hell it’s called now, he thinks) music.  From the backseat, he hears David laugh.   “You think he’s bad now. In college, he used to force me to listen to all his brother’s 1970’s vinyls.”

“It’s bad form to insult the designated driver, mate,” Killian shoots back in a mild tone.  “Otherwise you might send him straight to the depths of a bottle, and then when would you all be?”

He feels the soft patting of a small hand on his shoulder, then Mary Margaret’s soothing voice.  “He’s only teasing you. You know how children are on the playground. Always chasing and pinching the people they _really_ like because they don’t know any other way of showing their affection.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma stiffen, and the tender spot on his ribcage suddenly feels like it’s glowing.  To his relief, David saves him from answering by pouncing on his girlfriend’s turn of phrase, laughter threaded through his words.  “Hang on. Are you implying that you think I’m interested in Killian, or that I have the maturity level of a fifth grader?”

Killian hears a soft, feminine chuckle from the backseat.  “Of course not, darling.  You’re at a seventh grade level at least.”

The voices from the backseat drop to a low, intimate murmur, and beside him Emma sighs.  Obviously deciding he’s the lesser of two evils, she finally addresses him directly. “Well, you might not be drinking tonight, but I’m definitely ready for a large glass of wine.”  She chances a look into the backseat, then quickly turns around again. “Or two.”

“Not exactly your ideal double-date then, Swan?”  The fact that he doesn’t want to bite his tongue after dangling such an inappropriate line in front of her should worry him, but he’s decided that he may as well go the masochistic route and enjoy the torture that lies in wait for him.

“This is _not_ a date.”

Beneath the irritation, there’s a pleading note in her voice, and he immediately regrets pushing her. “It was just a joke, Swan.”

“Save your breath, okay?”  Chancing a glance sideways, he sees that she’s gripping the purse in her lap tightly, her fingers pale against the black leather. “I’m not in the mood.”

It seems his teasing has negated any good that her run with Mary Margaret managed to accomplish.  “My apologies, love.”

In answer, she reaches down and turns up the volume on the car stereo, drowning out the murmured conversation from the backseat and anything else _he_ might say.  He grins, keeping his gaze on the road ahead, Mary Margaret’s words about chasing and pinching echoing pleasantly in his head.

 

~*~

  
  


The restaurant is crowded, but thanks to David’s charming telephone manner when he’d called earlier, they’re immediately whisked away to a table next to a large picture window overlooking the water.  To her disconcertion, Killian neatly side-steps the waiter to pull her chair out for her, then looks at her expectantly.  She feels her eyes narrow without her even having to try, but he just smiles at her. 

 _So_ , she thinks, _it’s going to be like that, is it?_

Taking her cue from Mary Margaret, Emma smiles back at him.  “Why, _thank you_ , kind sir.”

He blinks, and she mentally notches up a point for herself. 

She ends up sitting across from Killian and next to David.  As they settle themselves, Killian waves his hand at David. “Nice work with the table, mate,” he tells him, and David beams.

“Not too bad for such short notice, right?”

Emma watches them, wondering if she gets that goofy look on her face every time Killian says something nice to _her_ , then reaches for the wine list.  Maybe a glass of Sauvignon Blanc will help her forget the way his knuckles, warm and rough, had brushed against her bare skin when he’d fixed her zipper. 

The goosebumps that had skittered over her skin had been bad enough, but that fleeting touch had made her _yearn_ in a way she’d almost forgotten was possible. Painfully conscious that her nipples had drawn up tight and hard, pushing against the silk of her favourite black bra, she’d had to fight the impulse to fold her arms across her chest.  As soon as he’d finished zipping her up, she’d fled (there’s no other word for it, she admits that now) to her room with barely a grunt of thanks. 

And now he’s sitting across from her, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.  He’s wearing his usual black, close-fitting trousers with a black shirt, sleeves rolled up and enough buttons undone at the neck for her to be able to see his silver Celtic pendant, gleaming brightly against the dark hair on his chest.  It’s just enough of a glimpse to remind her that she’d seen much more of him only a few hours earlier, and she feels a ripple of heat slide down her spine.

She knows she’s playing with fire simply by being here, but she tells herself she can handle it.  Inappropriate lust aside, these people are her closest friends, and she wants to enjoy this time together. _At least she won’t have to deal with any awkward conversations about moving house tonight,_ she thinks, and yet another flicker of disloyalty dances through her at the realisation that she hasn’t thought of Walsh for hours.  Maybe it’s because he still hasn’t bothered to reply to the text messages she sent him after her shower.  Or maybe, she thinks, watching Killian’s arm muscles flex as he leans across the table to hand the wine list to David, there’s a very different reason.

_Crap._

Maybe _two_ glasses of Sauvignon Blanc will do the trick.

For a place that’s only just opened, the service is on point, and their drinks order is taken quickly and cheerfully.  She finds herself biting back a smile when Killian orders a club soda, despite his obviously longing look at the selection of top-shelf rum listed just below the non-alcoholic beverages.  Glancing up, he catches her watching him, and gives her a wink.  “Man of my word, Swan.”

“That’s not what Jane said when she stormed out of our apartment three weeks ago,” Mary Margaret teases, and a dull flush creeps up his neck. 

“She felt I’d reneged on a promise to go a hiking weekend with her, which was patently untrue,” he mutters, studying the menu with exaggerated care.  “I never promised any such thing, of course, but I’m afraid we had to agree to disagree on that one.”

“Poor girl,” Emma hears herself say, and he looks up from the menu to pin her in place with a steady blue stare.

“What makes you say that, Swan?”

Suddenly feeling as though she’s on the witness stand, Emma fights the urge to squirm in her seat.  She can feel David and Mary Margaret looking back and forth between the two of them with interest, just like they had in the kitchen this afternoon, and knows she has to cut this conversation off at the legs, so to speak.  “Trying to argue with a lawyer talk during a break up?  She never stood a chance.”

He grins at her. “Just as well you’re not dating a lawyer then, isn’t it?”

Before she can volley back a snappy answer (or start coming up with one, to be honest), Mary Margaret swoops in and saves her.  “So, what’s everyone ordering?”

For a few blissful moments, she discusses the menu with the other woman, ignoring the other conversation happening at the table, which seems to be about football and maybe upgrading their cable package in the apartment.  Her stomach rumbling, Emma chews on her bottom lip as she narrows down her options to two choices, then looks at her friend.  “I _really_ want those garlic shrimp, but-”

“Go for it.”  Mary Margaret winks at her. “Walsh is working tonight, so it’s not as though you have to worry about kissing anyone.”

Their table suddenly rocks, making their thankfully still-empty wine glasses wobble on their stems.  Across from her, Killian scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Sorry, I crossed my legs and kicked the table.”

“See, this is why we usually stick to burger joints,” David drawls as a waiter arrives with their drink order, and Killian gives him an offended look across the table.

“Are you saying I’m not fit to be let out into polite society?”

David holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You said it, not me.”

The waiter distributes their drinks, putting club soda in front of both Killian and Mary Margaret, then making a point of showing the wine bottle to both Emma and David.  _Nothing like gender equality when it comes to wine snobbery_ , she thinks with amusement, then leaves it to David to go through the usual ritual of tasting and giving the expected thumbs up. 

(Walsh sends back bottles of wine on a regular basis, something that never fails to make her feel as though she should apologise to the waiter - _but_ you _ordered that particular bottle, aren’t you only supposed to send it back if it’s got bits of cork floating in it? -_ and he always just smiles at her as though he could explain, but she still wouldn’t understand.)

The waiter fills Emma and David’s wineglasses, then plunges the bottle into a silver bucket with a loud crunching of ice.  Across from her, Killian picks up his glass of club soda, and waggles his damned eyebrows at her.  “Not a mason jar in sight,” he murmurs in a soft voice she _knows_ is directed solely at her, and she subdues the urge to press the heel of her stiletto down on the toe of his boot, because that would just be asking for trouble, really. 

Their waiter reappears to take their order, and Killian and David immediately engage the man in an intense conversation regarding numerous appetizers and the seafood platter for two as entree.   Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at Emma as the friendly debate becomes more and more animated ( _lobster is miles ahead of crab, mate, trust me_ ), and Emma grins. 

“Now I remember why we stopped going out to dinner in a group,” she tells her friend in a stage whisper, and the other woman laughs. 

“Hey, if it means I’m off the hook when it comes to sharing that ginormous platter with David, I can put up with a little carry-on.”

Almost in defiance, Emma orders the garlic shrimp (although to whom she’s trying to make a point, she’s not quite sure) then teases Mary Margaret about being predictable.  “Clam chowder?  Again?  Really?”

Her friend is unapologetic. “I like the crackers.”

“Gotta love a woman who knows what she likes.” Half-rising in his chair, David leans across the table and kisses his girlfriend soundly, as if he couldn’t wait another moment to remind her that he thinks she’s perfect.  Shaking her head, Emma reaches for her glass of wine, her gaze meeting Killian’s across the table. 

“You’d think the honeymoon phase would be over by now,” she mutters, and again those dark eyebrows arch. 

“Some people are simply more romantic than others, love.”  He leans back in his seat, drumming on the table with the fingers of his right hand, his eyes never leaving hers.  “But you’d know all about that, what with your man Walsh and all those flowers he used to send you.”

Maybe she will crunch his toes with her heel, after all.  Mary Margaret often buys flowers at the farmer’s market, and Emma had been hoping that no one would notice that _her_ contribution to the floral content of their apartment had petered out.  Obviously, that was too much to ask. “If you must know, Itold Walsh to stop sending them to me.”

Like an impulse trigger, the mention of flowers has Mary Margaret suddenly tuning into their conversation. “Why?” She looks disappointed. “They were always so pretty.”

“And so plentiful,” Killian adds in a mild tone that doesn’t fool Emma for a second. “Odd how they always mysteriously ended up in the rubbish bin, though.”

She levels a heated glare at him, but his serene expression doesn’t change. _Bastard._

“Well, call me crazy,” Emma tells Mary Margaret, deliberately turning a shoulder in Killian’s direction, “but I don’t really enjoy flowers when they’re an apology.”

“That’s not crazy at all.” Sympathy flashes in the other woman’s eyes.  “That’s the sanest thing I’ve heard all day,” she reassures Emma, and turns to wag a stern finger at both men.  “Let that be a valuable lesson, boys.  Don’t send apology flowers because there’s only one place they’ll end up.”

David makes some crack about his own flower-buying track record, and Emma turns back to Killian, knowing she can’t spend the rest of the evening pretending he’s not there.  “By the way, that’s trash can, _mate_ ,” she tells him. “Not rubbish bin.”

He grins, his eyes brightening with amusement. “What would I do without you, Swan?” 

And just like that, just when she thought maybe she could get through tonight without him making her feel restless and uncertain, she’s right back to wondering what the _hell_ it is that they think they’re doing, because her pulse is suddenly racing, her stomach flipping over in a way that’s got nothing to do with hunger.  She knows she’s put herself in this situation, but she almost _hates_ him for messing with her head to the point where she can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.

_I hate you sometimes._

For the third time in as many days, the words pop up like a freaking jack-in-a-box in her head, pushing her into the ‘officially confused as all hell’ zone. Grabbing her napkin off her lap, she picks up her purse, knowing she’s running away but beyond caring.  “Excuse me, will you?” She pushes back her chair, then looks at both men in turn. “If those appetisers arrive while I’m in the bathroom, don’t you two _dare_ scoff the lot of them, you hear me?”

She receives two identically injured expressions in return as Mary Margaret rises to her feet as well, smiling.  “You know the rules, Emma,” she teases. “I’m duty bound to come with you.”

“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to-” Emma assures her, but the protest falls on deaf ears.  A moment later, she and Mary Margaret are in the newly finished powder room, where Emma goes through the charade of using the facilities (why else would she want to come in here?) while her friend chatters about how nice the restaurant is and how glad she is that the four of them were all free on the same night.  Eventually she notices a distinct lack of response on Emma’s part, and her dark eyebrows drawn up in a frown.

“Hey, are you okay?”

In the middle of running cool water over her wrists (anything to stop her from feeling as though she’s running a temperature) Emma smiles at Mary Margaret’s reflection in the large mirror.  “I’m great, why?”

“I hate to pry, but did you and Killian have a fight?”  Concern is etched on her friend’s face. “Things seem a little weird between you two.”

This is her chance to come clean, but Emma has the feeling that baring her soul before they’ve even had appetisers might not be the best timing she’s ever had.  Besides, what the hell would she even say?  _Oh, I’ve been in love with him for years, but clearly he never felt the same way, so I just learned to deal with it, but over the last few days something’s changed and he’s looking at me as though he’s_ waiting _on me, and I have no idea what’s going on, only that I feel like I’ve skipped a couple of chapters in a book and lost track of the plot somehow._

“We had a misunderstanding earlier.” Turning off the tap, she goes in search of the hand dryer. “We worked it out, though.”

“That’s a relief.”   Mary Margaret inspects her already perfect lipstick, then touches the tip of her pinkie finger to the corner of her mouth.  “The four of us should do this more often.  You know, I had my doubts when David offered Killian the last bedroom at the start of the year, but it’s worked out just fine.”

“Why, because he’s a smart-assed divorce lawyer?”

Mary Margaret grins.  “No, because I thought it might be awkward, what with him wanting to ask you out when we were at college.”

Emma stares at her friend as the hand dryer cuts out, making the silence even more deafening.  _Black is white, night is day,_ she thinks dazedly, _and apparently Killian Jones wanted to ask her out when they were in college._ “What are you talking about?”

“Gosh, I’ve never told you this story?” The other woman’s tone is casual, as though they’re just discussing the weather, as though Emma’s heart isn’t suddenly racing a freaking gazillion miles an hour.  “That day at the coffee shop on campus, when I first introduced you to David.  Killian was there, remember?”

Emma remembers.  She remembers every single thing about those two hours she’d spent in Killian’s company that day.  “Yeah, I guess.”

Mary Margaret rummages in her purse, coming up with a travel-sized bottle of the perfume she’d put on before they left home tonight.  “Well, you know how guys are.”  She lightly spritzes her modestly-exposed cleavage before slipping the bottle back into her purse.  “When you left the table to visit the bathroom, he asked me if you were seeing anyone.” 

Emma says nothing. She’s officially speechless.  Mary Margaret is happy to keep talking, though, and doesn’t seem to notice that her audience is basically gobsmacked.  “Of course, I told him you were dating Neal and it was pretty serious, then he made some joke about always being in the wrong place at the wrong time and not to bother telling you he’d asked, as you’d only feel sorry for him, I think were his words.”  She smooths her hands over her sleek black hair, then grins at Emma’s reflection in the mirror. “He seemed to get over it pretty quickly, now that I think about it, with all those girls he dated in college.” 

Emma makes a sound with her mouth that manages to pass as a word. “Uh-huh.”

“It was a nice change this morning not to have to make awkward conversion with a strange woman in our kitchen, don’t you think?”  Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at Emma, who offers her a weak smile.  “I doubt he’s actually decided to settle down, though.  He’s probably just having a quiet weekend.”

Right now, Emma couldn’t give a damn about the lack of a willowy brunette at their kitchen table this morning (actually, she does, but that’s a whole other issue). “Why the hell didn’t you ever tell me?”  
  
Mary Margaret shrugs. “I don’t know.  He asked me not to.  Besides, he was just one of dozens of guys who asked me if you were single every time you were out of earshot.”  

She thinks of how David had laughed when she’d told him that she wasn’t Killian’s type. “Does David know about this?”

“I don’t think so.  He was at the counter ordering our coffees when Killian asked about you.”  She curls her arms through Emma’s.  “What does it matter now?  It was years ago. Come on, our dates will be wondering where we are.”

She knows Mary Margaret is just joking, but the words still come out in a sharp rush. “I’m _not_ on a date.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I was only teasing.” Her friend squeezes her arm.  “I know you’d never do anything like that to Walsh.”

_Oh, God._

Feeling like she’s sleepwalking, she follows the other woman back to their table to find their appetisers waiting, untouched by human hands, both men looking as though they’re waiting to be praised for their restraint. As they take their seats, David tops up both wine glasses, then looks at Mary Margaret.  “Remind me to call the super in the morning, okay? Killian was just telling me that the exhaust in the main bathroom is broken again.”

Mary Margaret frowns. “Again?”

“Dead as a dodo, I’m afraid.”  He looks across the table at Emma, his half-empty glass of club soda raised in a toast. “Isn’t that right, Swan?”

“Hey, tempura shrimp,” she announces as she studies at the appetisers they’d ordered to share, pointedly ignoring both Killian and the way her breath seems to be snagging in her chest.  “I call first dibs on those.”

Somehow, she gets through the evening.  She smiles and talks and nods in all the right places (she thinks) and drinks the lion’s share of the bottle of wine.  Finally, after watching David and Mary Margaret share an obscenely large dessert involving brownies and salted caramel, it’s time to call for the check and get the hell out of Dodge.  _Except,_ she thinks in faint despair, _going home isn’t an escape, just a change of venue._

David insists on picking up the check, jokingly telling Killian not to expect any grocery money this week, and waves away Emma’s attempt to chip in.  “You can spring for burritos next week,” he tells her with a grin, and she can’t help smiling.  He’s old-fashioned and a little over-protective, but she’s very glad he’s in her life.

Killian’s behind her as they walk down the three steps from the restaurant entrance to the sidewalk, and maybe it’s just her imagination, but she would swear she feels the brush of his hand against the small of her back.  She looks over her shoulder at him - she can’t help it – but he’s a respectable distance behind her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers.  He doesn’t look at her, and she tells herself that she’s glad he seems to have decided to ease up on trying to push every single button she possesses.

The trip home is much quieter.  Once again, Mary Margaret and David commandeer the backseat, and Emma resigns herself to another twenty minutes of banter that will leave her feeling off-kilter and blushing.  To her surprise, Killian merely flicks on the radio as soon as they’re on the road, tuning it to a retro station she knows is one of his favourites.  As David Bowie’s voice fills the car, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, humming under his breath and making no effort at conversation.

She should be glad, right?

Once they’ve reached home, Mary Margaret groans as she climbs from the car.  “God, I feel like I could sleep for a week.”  She taps her boyfriend accusingly on the arm.  “Why did you let me order that dessert?”

David smiles as he presses a kiss to the top of her dark head.  “Because I’m a smart man who knows it’s not his place to tell you _not_ to order dessert, my love.” 

Emma trails after them as they head into their apartment building, feeling like a tired child following her parents after an outing.  Killian waves them all into the elevator when it arrives, and presses the button for their floor, all without saying a word.  Just as Emma has the thought that this is the longest she’s known him to go without opening his mouth, he leans back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, his arms folded across his chest.  “How were the garlic shrimp?”

“Great.”  She leans against the opposite wall, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “How was that giant mountain of sea fodder you and David consumed?”

“Outstanding.”

He grins at her as the elevator doors open, his eyes warm, and the tension pulling tight at the back of her neck and across her shoulders suddenly seems to ease.  Once again she trails after Mary Margaret and David towards their apartment door, but this time Killian is trudging beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers.  He nods at the couple ahead of them, one dimple flashing in his bearded cheek as he grins.  “Should we thank Mum and Dad for taking us out for tea?”

She almost trips over the pointed toes of her stilettos.  He’s mirrored her own thoughts so exactly that she’s tempted to ask him when he took up mind-reading as a hobby.  “Maybe not. They might ground us for being fresh.”

He raises his eyebrow at the mention of the word _fresh_ but thankfully says nothing as they file into their apartment, switching on lights and shrugging off coats.   Mary Margaret pauses long enough to wave at them before heading towards the master bedroom, her eyelids practically drooping.  “Sorry, guys, I’m beat.  See you tomorrow.”

After a smile for Emma and a quick aside to Killian about recording the rugby that’s playing in the middle of the night (the game is apparently happening in another hemisphere, go figure), David follows in her wake, already yawning.

“I’d forgotten what party animals they were,” she murmurs, and behind her Killian laughs as he turns on the television and starts fiddling with the TiVo settings.

“Give me a second to sort this out, love, and I’ll make you that cup of tea I promised earlier.”

Emma kicks off her heels with relief, pressing her bare feet flat against the floorboards with a sigh.  Catching sight of his grin, she shoots Killian a defensive look.  “What?”

He’s looking at the television screen now, but she can still feel the weight of his attention. “With those killer shoes on, I’d almost forgotten how wee you are, Swan.”

“Bite me.” He opens his mouth, his eyes gleaming with obvious intent, and she holds up one hand in warning.  “ _Don’t._ ”

Shrugging, he goes back to programming the TiVo, still smirking, and she decides that filling and turning on the kettle is as good a reason as any to put some space between them.  Thanks to their grocery shopping efforts, there is a new container of milk and a new packet of teabags, along with a packet of sugar cubes that he’d insisted on putting in the cart, ridiculous person that he is.

(He’d made vague noises in the store about buying loose leaf tea as well, but seeing as they don’t own a teapot, she’d managed to talk him out of it.)

Her phone buzzes on the counter as she’s opening the new packet of teabags.  It’s a text from Walsh, and she’s _not_ a fan of the strange hollow sensation that carves out her insides at the sight of his name.

_Good evening, sweetheart.  Hope you had a good night with your friends.  So sorry I couldn’t be there.  Silver lining is that meetings went very well – two new supply contracts!  Have to be in the store tomorrow morning to meet a rep from that new interior design place on 3 rd, but should be finished by noon.  Let me buy you lunch?  Miss you, love you, see you tomorrow?  W_

She doesn’t reply.    _Later,_ she tells herself, and pushes her phone aside, as if that might help simplify her life.  Wishful thinking, of course, because she’s never felt more disorganised in the emotional department in her life.

By the time Killian joins her in the kitchen, the kettle is boiled and she’s unearthed both their favourite mugs, and he seems disappointed that she’s done most of the work.  “I thought _I_ was making this cup of tea, Swan.”

“Don’t worry, I left the fiddly bit for you,” she tells him, heading for the high cupboard where they usually stash any treats, as Mary Margaret likes to call them, grinning when she finds the packets of chocolate cookies that had been such a hot topic in the grocery store earlier that day.  She’d forgotten all about them, but in her defence, she _has_ had three glasses of wine.  “Look what I found.”

“Hands off, Swan.”  She looks up to find him shaking his head at her as he pours boiling water into their mugs. “We had an agreement, remember?”  He points the teaspoon at the packet in her hand. “Those are _mine_.”

“Is that right?”  Holding his gaze with hers, she tears open one end of the packet slowly, deliberately, enjoying the muscle flickering in his jaw.  “So I guess you don’t want me doing _this_.” She pulls out the plastic tray holding the cookies, grinning when he takes a step towards her.  “You really think you can take me, Jones?”  

His eyes darken, and too late she realises what she’s said.  “On a good day, when you’re at the top of your game?  Absolutely not.”  He takes another step towards her, his gaze sweeping over her, fluttering against her skin like warm silk.  “You can talk the talk all you like tonight, love, but I think you’re forgetting something very important.”

Her hand tightens around the packet in her hand. “And what’s that?”

He smiles then, a lazy curving of his lips, and later she realises she should have seen it for the warning signal it was. “ _I_ was the designated driver.”

He moves much faster than she anticipated, seeming to land beside her in two long strides, and she bites back a laughing shriek as he makes a grab for the cookie packet.  “You wouldn’t be so sure of yourself if I had my cuffs,” she pants furiously, ducking under his arm and making it halfway across the kitchen before she feels his hands on her waist, pulling her backwards and spinning her around. 

“If you had your cuffs, darling,” he shoots back, grinning as he slides his hand down her arm, his fingers closing over the cookie packet and half-tugging it out of her grip, “this would be even more fun.” 

 _Oh, God._ She tries to tug her hand out of his grasp, pulling them both off balance in the process, the packet of cookies flying out of their entangled hands as they stumble backwards. Her ass hits the edge of the kitchen counter, his hands suddenly bracing on either side of her hips, his body pinning hers in place.  She’s not laughing anymore and neither is he, and suddenly she can hardly breathe. His mouth is only a whisper away from her lips, his body hard and warm against hers.  Arousal is thrumming through her blood and her skin, unfurling low in her belly, because she wants this more than she’s wanted _anything_ in a very long time.   

His gaze burns into hers, urgently searching her face, and again she has the feeling that he’s waiting on her. “Emma-”

She wants to kiss him. 

She can’t.

Putting both hands on his chest (his shirt does nothing to stop the heat of his skin warming her palms), she gently pushes him away.  He steps back instantly, putting at least two feet between them.  “This has to stop.”  She gestures between them ( _fuck_ , her hands are shaking), her voice cracking. “We can’t keep doing this, whatever the hell this is.”

He looks stricken, almost embarrassed, and he moves slowly towards her, his voice gentle.  “Perhaps if we talked about it-”

“I don’t think talking is going to help.” She slides sideways, almost stepping on the fucking cookie packet as she steps away. “Look, I’m not saying I’ve never thought about it, about you and me, because I have, but I just _can’t_.”  To her horror, her eyes blur, but she keeps going, because she has to get this out in the open before it festers and eats away at her.  “I won’t do that to Walsh.”

At the mention of Walsh’s name, something changes in his face.  His expression smooths out, his jaw tightening.  He nods as he takes one step back from her, then another. “Message received and understood, love.”

His tone is painfully polite, and it’s almost enough to crack her heart in two. “Killian-” She wants to tell him that she can’t bear to lose him, that she needs him in her life, and if they mess up what they already have, it will ruin everything.

She doesn’t get the chance.

His soft smile does nothing to counter the regret in his eyes, and the crack in her heart widens a little more. “Goodnight, Swan.”  He walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway without looking back, and the quiet _click_ of his bedroom door shutting sounds like a gunshot in the silent apartment.

 

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again so much for reading along, and let me just say two things: this is a slow burn fic with a capital S and a capital B. I’m a firm believer in happy endings, but sometimes the path to those endings can be a little rough.

~*~

Perhaps it’s because he’s never usually stone-cold sober when he programs this wretched device, but he’s never before had so much trouble bending the TiVo to his will.  Or perhaps, he thinks as he glances down the hallway to the kitchen, he’s simply distracted by the thought of Emma waiting for him to make her a cup of tea.

Clearly, he needs help, and not just with the bloody TiVo.

He finally gets the sodding mechanical beast under control, no doubt earning him a gold star from the other male in the house tomorrow, and makes his way to the kitchen.  He can smell the faint scent of steam from the kettle (they seem to be making a habit of convening in steamy rooms today) and shakes his head teasingly at her. “I thought _I_ was making this cup of tea, Swan.”

She wrinkles his nose at him. “Don’t worry, I left the fiddly bit for you,” she reassures him, making him grin. _Hardened bail bondswoman, creeped out by used tea bags,_ he thinks, his grin widening. If she would just let him him buy some real loose leaf tea, then they wouldn’t have this issue.

He would like very much another moment to admire the curve of Emma’s arse as she leans on the kitchen counter, dropping a tea bag into two mugs in turn, but she’s already on the move, crossing the room to open one of the cupboard doors. He tears his gaze away from the sway of her hips and the way the skirt of her dress rides up to show her knees as she grabs something from the cupboard shelf (the act of pouring boiling water doesn’t make allowances for such gawking), then he hears her make a unmistakable sound of triumph.

“Look what I found.”

She’s holding a packet of the chocolate biscuits he’d insisted on putting in their cart at the market earlier today, and the impulse to tease her is impossible to ignore. “Hands off, Swan.” 

She looks up at him, green eyes wide, and he shakes his head at her. “We had an agreement, remember?” A frown tugs between her eyebrows, and he uses the teaspoon he’s holding to gesture towards her ill-gotten bounty. “Those are _mine_.”

Her frown vanishes, replaced by a smirk that makes his pulse quicken. “Is that right?”  Her eyes never leave his face as she rips into the biscuit packet, her hand movements slow and faintly suggestive.  _God help him._ “So I guess you don’t want me doing _this_.”

Another flash of her long, pale fingers and the biscuits are half-out of their plastic covering, and he can no more resist the challenge than he could ever resist anything this woman demands of him.  She purses her lips when he takes a step towards, her gaze dropping to his foot as if daring it to repeat the motion.  “You really think you can take me, Jones?”  

He _definitely_ needs help, because her words have just taken him straight to the depths of the gutter and he’s not sure he cares.  “On a good day, when you’re at the top of your game?”  He lets himself eye her up and down, knowing full well that her demure dress is hiding a cool hunter’s mind and a killer right hook.  “Absolutely not.”   Another step, and she doesn’t exactly back up, but there’s a wariness in her eyes now, and he knows she’s frantically cataloguing all her escape routes.  “You can talk the talk all you like tonight, love, but I think you’re forgetting something very important.”

She grips her prize a little more tightly, the sound of crinkling plastic filling the room. “And what’s that?”

He smiles at her, knowing he’s playing with fire, knowing he doesn’t give a damn. “ _I_ was the designated driver.”

He _almost_ manages to take her by surprise, fleetingly getting his hand on the packet she’s clutching.  She’s obviously determined not to give it up without a fight, and that only makes everything more dangerous.

“You wouldn’t be so sure of yourself if I had my cuffs.” With this breathless declaration, she manages to slip past him, and he reacts instinctively. 

(At least, that’s his excuse, an excuse over which he will brood much later.)

Trying and failing not to imagine her snicking those handcuffs of hers around his wrists, he reaches out and grabs her by the hips as she flees, his fingertips sinking into intriguingly soft curves as he hauls her backwards, his feet braced on the kitchen floor. “If you had your cuffs, darling,” he manages to say as he tells himself that he’s simply doing this to liberate his expensive chocolate biscuits.  Knowing _that_ argument would be thrown out of even the most gullible of courtrooms, he keeps his left hand on her hip as he runs his right down her arm, grinning as he finally manages to grab his quarry, “this would be even more fun.” 

She stiffens against him, the swell of her arse almost brushing against his zipper, and he sucks in a ragged breath.  In the next heartbeat, she rips her hand out of his grasp, and his centre of gravity is suddenly compromised, his feet stumbling awkwardly as she twists, her shoulder thumping into the middle of his chest.  He hears the packet of biscuits hit the ground, but he doesn’t give a damn, because they’ve somehow ended up against the kitchen counter, still entangled, his hips pressed into hers, her breasts flush against his chest. 

_Fuck._

He’s beyond help now. 

Her lips are sinfully close to his, the memory of that kiss ( _God_ , the taste of her, the soft moan that had hummed in her throat) consuming him, churning through his blood until he’s not sure _how_ he’s stopping himself from covering her mouth with his.

Her breath is coming just as hard and fast as his, both of them far more winded than their fleeting tussle warrants.  She stares up at him, her eyes dark, her rose-coloured lips parted on silent words he would give everything he owned to hear her speak. 

 _Please remember,_ he begs her silently.  Please _remember how you feel._

She says nothing, her expression caught between panicked and _hopeful,_ damn her, and he can no longer hold his tongue. “Emma-”

Her hands are suddenly flat on his chest, and he obeys the silent request instantly, because he wants, _needs_ this to be on her terms.  She looks at him with glittering eyes, and he sees her swallow hard.  “This has to stop.”  

His heart sinks like a stone, and he wants to speak, but the words don’t come. 

When he says nothing, she shakes her head, flicking her hand between them, her gaze shifting away from his. “I can’t keep doing this, whatever the hell this is.”

His face grows hot at the faint accusation in her voice, the back of his neck prickling madly.  _Now.  Tell her now._  “Perhaps if we talked about it-”

“Talking isn’t going to help.” She slips away, leaving his body mourning the loss of contact more than he would have thought possible.  “I’m not saying I’ve never thought about it, about you and me, because I have, but I just _can’t_.”  He stares at her, each one of her words like a hammer on a bruise, the tiny sliver of hope gleaming brightly before being dashed to the rocks.  Her eyes fill with tears, and she blinks almost angrily.  “I won’t do that to Walsh.”

The sound of the other man’s name is like a claxon in his ears.  She might want to sleep with _him_ , but she’s still in a relationship with Walsh and apparently has no intention of changing that particular status quo.  She couldn’t have made her feelings on their current dilemma more clear if she’d scrawled them in cold tea across the kitchen wall, and the fact that he loves her all the more for her determination to be true to Walsh is of no comfort.   He nods, suddenly very badly needs to be in a room that doesn’t contain Emma Swan. “Message received and understood, love.”

Her face falls, her nose scrunching as her eyes brim with tears. “Killian-”

If he stays here a second longer, he won’t be able to stop himself from comforting her.  There are times, he thinks as he swallows down the lump in his own throat, when self-preservation has to take precedence over chivalry.  “Goodnight, Swan.” 

The silence from the kitchen behind him as he walks away is deafening, and the part of him that still _hoped_ withers with each step he takes.

 _Fool,_ he berates himself as he shuts his bedroom door and leans against it, forehead pressed hard against the cool wood as if that might stop the furious churning of his thoughts. _What were you expecting? That she’d come after you?  Tell you she’s changed her mind?_

Feeling as though he’s literally sporting a dark cloud above his head, he changes into his usual t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, throwing his clothes carelessly onto the chair in the corner of his room.  Normally (much to his housemates’ collective teasing delight) he would take great care in hanging and folding, but tonight, he couldn’t give a toss.   Neither does he give a damn about washing his face or cleaning his teeth, not if it means he has to endure another awkward encounter with Emma.  After scrounging in his top drawer, he pops a mint and flops onto his bed, praying for sleep to claim him quickly.  Anything to stop him thinking about what’s just happened.

Sleep, it appears, is busy elsewhere. 

He can’t stop himself from replaying every moment of the last few days, from that drunken kiss through to the instant Emma looked him in the eye and told him that she wasn’t choosing him.  When he then moves onto overanalysing every single word they’ve exchanged since Thursday evening, he knows he can lie here and slowly go mad, or he can do something else.

For one, their wifi is cooperative (perhaps it senses that tonight he’s fully prepared to rip its little cord out of the wall and break it over his knee) and soon he’s scrolling disinterestedly through his emails.  One of his rugby mates has sent him a particularly filthy joke involving England’s current captain, and he forwards it onto Liam.  Two minutes later, a reply arrives from his brother.

**What a delightful limerick, and how kind of you to share it with me. I won’t be able to get that mental image out of my head for months. How was dinner?**

_Enlightening._

**Details please.**

_Emma and I talked. Very briefly.  She admitted there is something between us but made it quite clear she intends to stick with Monkey Boy._

**Hang on, she admitted she fancies you? That’s good isn’t it?**

_Wanting to shag someone doesn’t mean true love._

**If she’s been thinking about YOU, you git, that means she’s not happy with HIM.**

_You’ve had too much of that energy drink, mate._

**Since when do you just give up when it comes to a woman?**

_When I know I’m making her unhappy._

**This is no time to be a gentleman, Killian.**

_On the contrary, it’s the perfect time._

**So let me guess, you’re hiding out in your bedroom like a sulking teenager?**

_I’m TRYING to get some sleep, so now that you’ve had done the clichéd older brother spiel, perhaps I can do just that._

**Wanker.**

_Perhaps, but at least I’m not a pompous tosser.  Give my love to the missus and the demon spawn._

**I will. Talk soon.**

Closing his laptop, he pushes it onto the empty side of his bed and scrubs his hands over his face. He certainly doesn’t feel any better after the rapid fire email exchange with his brother, but he doesn’t feel any worse.  It’s far from a win, but he’ll take it.

(To be brutally honest, he’s not sure it would be possible for him to feel worse.)

In the end, it seems as though he’s barely fallen asleep before his alarm is beeping at him.  He glares at his phone, wondering why the hell it’s urging him to rise at six in the morning on a Sunday, then remembers that he’d planned to head into the office today.  It suddenly seems like the best idea he’s had in days.  He doesn’t know what Emma’s Sunday plans might be, but he is in no mood to make uncomfortable conversation with her, especially if they have an audience.  He never thought he’d be grateful for her memory lapse regarding their kiss, but he finds himself wishing now that he could erase last night’s encounter from her mind.

It’s early, and the apartment is silent and still as he makes his way from his room to the bathroom.  Despite the lack of proper ventilation, he closes the door firmly behind him, getting through his usual morning ablutions in record time.  Still, he checks for any signs of life as he emerges from the bathroom, because the last thing he wants right now is for Emma Swan to look at him with pity in her eyes.

He’s going to have to move out of the apartment.

A sour knot forms in his stomach at the thought, and he pushes it to the back of his head as he dresses quickly.  It’s the most obvious solution to having to creep about his own home in order to avoid a woman, the most sensible thing for both of them.  As he’s thought many a time, however, his common sense seems to always be in short supply when it comes to Emma Swan.

Scowling at his reflection in the small mirror above his dresser (he looks more than a little rough, and it’s not just due to the lack of sleep), he grabs his wallet, keys and phone.  As he slides the phone into his back pocket, he wonders if today will be the day that he’ll be brave enough to delete that bloody photograph.

He suspects not.

~*~

When she reaches blearily for her phone on the bedside table, it tells her it’s almost ten.  She has a brief moment of panic that it’s Monday morning, mentally flipping backwards through what she remembers doing and eating and watching.  It’s Sunday, she reassures herself, only to hit a wall when she remembers exactly what her Saturday night entailed.

To be honest, she liked it better when she thought it was Monday morning.

Rolling over, Emma curls the pillow around her head, as if that might stop her from remembering every little detail of one of the most painful conversations she’s had in a long time, and she’s had plenty of those. 

 _God, the way he’d looked at her._  

She’s had a few men tell her (jokingly and otherwise) that she’s breaking their heart over the years, but she’d never actually believed herself capable of doing such a thing until last night.

Last night, after Killian had left her in the kitchen, she’d sunk down into the closest chair and closed her eyes, wanting to go after him, knowing she couldn’t, hating herself for every word she’d said, hating herself for being so uncertain of her own heart.

She doesn’t know how long she’d sat there before she’d finally got to her feet, but she does know that she’d walked through the rest of her evening as if in a dream.  She’d poured their untouched tea down the sink, thrown the used teabags into the trash, then picked up the broken packet of cookies from the floor.  It was only when she’d been wiping down the counter that she’d realised that she’d been trying to erase any evidence that their awful conversation had actually taken place.

When she’d finally slept, she’d dreamed about him, walking away from her in a dozen different ways, her voice dying in her throat as she tried to call out to him.

_Shit._

She pulls a long-sleeved t-shirt on over the tank she’d slept in, then runs her hands through her hair.  She’s pretty sure she looks like ten kinds of hell, but there’s nothing she can do about that now.  Sitting on the edge of her bed as she shoves her feet into her slippers, she tries to remember if Killian had mentioned what he was doing today.  The thought of bumping into him in the hallway makes her insides curl, which is beyond ridiculous.  He’s been her friend forever, and they live under the same roof.  They have to talk in order to work through this, she knows that, but right now, she’s got nothing new to say.

She needs to think.

She needs to see Walsh.

And, before anything else, she needs coffee.

The thought of coffee instantly brings Killian to mind (hell, almost everything brings him to mind lately), and she takes a deep breath as she opens her bedroom door.  If he’s here, then she’ll do everything she can to make sure it’s not weird.

To her surprise (and relief), she can’t smell even the faintest hint of coffee, which is very odd for a Sunday morning.  Almost holding her breath, she makes her way to the bathroom, which is empty and cold, with no sign of it having been recently used.  She doesn’t go as far as to feel if his towel is damp.  She’s not that far gone.

Not yet, anyway.

She heads for the kitchen, the butterflies in the pit of her stomach increasing with every step she takes, but she needn’t have worried, because Killian is nowhere to be seen.  “Hey.”

Mary Margaret smiles as she clears a space at the kitchen table beside her, pushing aside the magazine she’s obviously been reading. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Morning.” A quick glimpse to her right tells her that the espresso machine isn’t even turned on, let alone showing signs of pumping out caffeine.  “Where are the guys?”   She’s shamelessly using David as a smokescreen, but no one else needs to know that.  

Mary Margaret hides a yawn behind her hand before picking up a mug of what smells like Earl Grey tea. “David is out picking up a new carton of milk, and I don’t know about Killian.  He was gone when I got up at eight.”

Emma seizes on the least stressful part of her friend’s answer. “I thought we had milk.”

The other woman gives her a fond smile that still manages to be a rebuke. “We did, but _someone_ left it out on the counter top all night.”

“Oh.”  Her face grows warm, remembering how she’d cleared everything away in a daze last night. “That was me, sorry.”

Her friend smiles.  “At least it wasn’t pizza boxes this time.  You and Killian didn’t get into the vodka again last night, did you?”

“No, just tea.”  Crossing the kitchen to the espresso machine, Emma busies herself by turning it on and filling the water reservoir.  She’s just pouring coffee beans into the grinder when she hears the front door open and close, and braces herself.  “I’m really sorry about the milk.”

David sweeps into the kitchen, bringing the cool November morning air with him, newspaper tucked under his arm, plastic market bag in his hand.  “So _you’re_ the culprit,” he says with a grin, pulling a new carton of milk out of the bag, as well as a slab of chocolate and a bag of corn chips.  “I was all ready to send Killian a text lecturing him about the dire consequences of milk spoilage.” 

Mary Margaret laughs.  “You would have been popular.”  

Emma eyes the other items on the kitchen counter.  “I know it’s Sunday, but isn’t it a little early for all that stuff?”

David looks unrepentant.  “I’ve got a football game to watch, and maybe where you come from, young lady, people watch football without snacks, but you’re in my town now.”

“God, you’re an idiot.”    She hits the _on_ button on the coffee grinder, using the noise to screen out the sight of her two housemates kissing each other as if they’d been apart for a year instead of than less than an hour. 

“Speaking of the game, where’s Killian?”  Mary Margaret has left the table to grab two coffee mugs from the cupboard, sliding across the counter top to where Emma is doing her best to steam the milk without burning her hand.  “He won’t be happy if you watch it without him.”

To Emma’s relief, David appear at her side, gently bumping her out of the way and taking the silver milk jug from her hand.  “Keep doing it like that, and you’ll turn it into custard again,” he teases, but Emma’s only too happy to let him take over.  She can appreciate the art of making a perfect cup of coffee as much as the next person, but she’s much more interested in drinking he damned thing.  “Killian’s gone into the office for the day, so I’m in the clear.”

“Really? On a Sunday?” Mary Margaret looks at Emma, then at David before shaking her head.  “I’m starting to think that we need to check him to make sure we’re not dealing with an Invasion of the Body Snatchers kind of thing.”

“He _has_ been a little off his usual game lately, I admit.” David looks at Emma, his eyebrows raised in an open invitation to contribute to the topic at hand.   _Bastard._

“You know how busy his workload gets at this time of year,” she hears herself say as she reaches for the coffee mug he’s holding out to her.  “All those parents bitching about access and visitation rights to their kids over Thanksgiving and Christmas.”  His back to Mary Margaret, David rolls his eyes but says nothing, and Emma jumps on the chance to change the subject.  “So, what are you guys doing today?”

Mary Margaret tilts her head in David’s direction as she heads back to the kitchen table. “Well, Prince Charming there is watching the game, and I’m catching up with some reading material for our field trip to the Old South Meeting House on Wednesday.”

“The Boston Tea Party routine? Again?”  Emma grins.  “I would have thought you knew the blurb on that place back to front by now.”

Her friend takes a long sip from her ‘apple for teacher’ mug.  “Trust me, when it comes to field trips, I’ve learned that you can never be too prepared.”  She smiles at Emma.  “What about you?”

Emma slides into the chair opposite Mary Margaret, carefully avoiding looking at David.  “Lunch with Walsh.”

“That sounds nice.

David clears his throat.  “Maybe you should see if Walsh can join us next time we all go out to dinner.”

Emma meets his gaze steadily, silently daring him to be more of an ass than he’s already being. “Maybe.”

Mary Margaret flicks through her home furnishings magazine, apparently oblivious to the silent war being waged over her head. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”  She pauses on a double spread showing a renovated country-style kitchen.  “I don’t think Killian likes Walsh that much.”

David eases himself into the chair beside his girlfriend, his tone that of a man who’s seriously asking for a punch in the face. “I wonder why that is.”

“You know Killian,” Emma bites out with smiling teeth, “he’s an enigma.”  She makes a show of checking the time on the large retro clock on the kitchen wall (Mary Margaret strikes again), then picks up her coffee. “I should get moving.  I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

“You want to catch a movie tonight?  Mary Margaret is looking at her hopefully, which to Emma means only one thing.  _Chick flick._ There’s obviously a movie she wants to see that David, as charming as he is, can’t quite bring himself to sit through. 

Emma grins.  Her romantic life might be on the fast track to becoming a train wreck, but she knows she’ll never be able to shake these two.  “I’ll call you later.”

Clutching her coffee, she escapes into her room, where she has to deal with the dilemma of dressing for her adopted city’s wind chill factor. It’s only the second week in November, but the weather app on her phone is predicting of a high (high, that’s rich) of forty-five.  _Only six weeks until Christmas,_ Emma thinks with a sigh as she pulls her official ‘winter’ jacket from the cupboard for the first time.  Maybe one year, she’ll be organised enough to be somewhere hot on 25thDecember.  Somewhere with blue water, white sand, drinks in hollowed out coconuts and no bullshit. 

The mental picture of salt-water drenched black hair and bright blue eyes suddenly pops into her head, and she wants to smack herself. 

_Stop.  Just stop._

To make matters worse, she still has no idea what she’s doing for the holidays.  Kathryn’s already offered to let her take some vacation days, but she’s not in the mood to tag along with Mary Margaret and David when they head off to visit their mothers in turn (Ruth in Maine, then Ava in Vermont).  For all his talk of moving in together, Walsh hasn’t breathed a word about the upcoming holiday season, and Emma doesn’t know if she’s disappointed or relieved.

Maybe she could just laze around the apartment, watch dozens of DVD boxed sets and eat her own weight in turkey and candy canes.

(She tries not to let herself wonder what Killian is doing for the holidays.  She fails.)

As always, the heat in the Bug takes forever to kick in, and she’s literally pulling into a parking space a block away from Walsh’s store before the hot air starts blowing on her feet.  “Sometimes, I wonder why I bother,” she mutters, then lovingly pats the steering wheel.  The Bug might not have any fancy mod cons, but it’s _hers,_ and once upon a time, this car was the only thing she had. 

There are several Sunday morning browsers in Baum & Denslow when she pushes open the large glass entrance door.   She’s way too early, so she briefly joins them, wandering through the high shelves that have been carefully organised to look as haphazard as possible.  She must be getting jaded, because she finds herself shaking her head over what some people will pay for seemingly battered old lamps and trunks.

 _Bloody hipsters_.

Emma scowls, turning on her heel to make her way to the front desk. She might be here to have lunch with Walsh, but apparently Killian’s still in her head. 

Awesome.

She sees Walsh long before he sees her.  He’s standing outside the small glassed office at the back of the store, talking to a woman she doesn’t know.   She’d definitely remember meeting _her_ , Emma thinks, taking in the combined impact of glossy red hair, hourglass figure and a face arresting enough to be on the cover of Vogue. 

She hovers, a sudden sour feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She’s not a jealous person (well, hardly ever) but there’s something weirdly intimate about their interaction, even if they _are_ standing a good two feet apart.  The woman must be the interior designer from the new place on 3rdthat he mentioned on Friday night, but they’re chatting like old friends, rather than people who’ve just met. 

Pulling her gaze away, she runs her finger over the ship’s wheel propped up against the shelf beside her (over two hundred bucks for a ‘distressed’ piece of wood – she’s starting to see Killian’s point), and wonders just when she started projecting her own guilty conscience onto her boyfriend.  Probably Friday morning in her kitchen, she thinks dully, when she’d realised that she wasn’t over her idiotic crush on her single housemate in any way, shape or form. 

 _This is ridiculous_ , she thinks.  Smoothing her hands down the front of her black sweater, she casually strolls to where Walsh is talking to the woman.  When she nears the front counter, he finally catches sight of her, his face creasing into a wide smile.

“Hey, sweetheart.”  If he’s concerned about her finding him schmoozing a red-haired knockout, it doesn’t show. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“I know,” she tells him, letting her gaze drift sideways to his visitor just long enough to be polite rather than challenging. “I got everything done much faster than I expected this morning, so here I am.”

Stepping away from the woman, he slides his arm around Emma’s waist, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek.  “And I am very happy to see you.”   Turning her around, he gestures towards the red-haired woman, who is watching them both with polite interest.  “Emma, this is Zelena Mills.”

Zelena Mills extends a pale, perfectly manicured hand.  Her fingernails are emerald green, an exact match for her silk shirt.  “Lovely to meet you, my dear.”

“And you.” Being called ‘dear’ by a woman who couldn’t be more than five years older than her is kind of weird, but Emma lets it slide.  By the sound of that accent, she muses, Zelena isn’t from around these parts. “You’re the new interior designer on 3rd?”

The other woman arches an auburn eyebrow in Walsh’s direction. “I see my reputation has preceded me.”

Walsh ducks his head, and Emma almost expects him to shuffle his feet in embarrassment. She looks at Zelena, hoping her smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels.  “Not really, that’s pretty much all I know.”

Zelena doesn’t seem to be having any such trouble, her smile wide and sincere. “Well, I know all about you.”  Once again, she arches a perfect eyebrow at Walsh.  “This one here hasn’t stopped singing your praises all morning.”

Emma tries not to frown, because Walsh discussing _her_ during a business meeting with someone he’s only just met makes no sense.  “That’s very sweet of him, but I can’t imagine it made for very riveting conversation.”

The other woman pats Emma lightly on the forearm.  “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong.”  Perfect white teeth flash against her dark red lipstick as she smiles.  “The life of a bail bondswoman sounds so much more exciting than anything that _I_ might get up to during my working day.”

Okay, Emma decides, she’s officially had enough of this weird conversation.  “Trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”  She looks at Walsh.  “Why don’t I meet you in the coffee shop and leave you two to finish up here?”

The words have barely left her mouth before Zelena is shaking her head apologetically and reaching for a long black coat that’s draped over a nearby display table.  “No need to do that, my dear, we’re all done.”  She shrugs elegantly into her coat, her polished fingernails flashing against the dark wool.  “I’ll send you through those projected figures tomorrow, Walsh.”

“The sooner we can get the ball rolling, the better.”  Walsh puts out his hand for Zelena to shake.  For a split second, Emma sees confusion in the other woman’s eyes, then it’s gone, leaving her to wonder if she imagined it.  “We’ll talk soon.”

“I’m sure we will.”  Zelena turns to Emma, still smiling.  “I hope to see _you_ again too, Emma.”

 _Not if I can help it_ , Emma thinks churlishly, then gives the other woman a smile of her own.  “Sounds great.”

Zelena waves away Walsh’s offer to walk her to the entrance of the store, and soon he and Emma are alone.  Before she can say a word, he slips his arm around her shoulders and gives her a gentle hug. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. I really do tell everyone I met how amazing you are.”

His preemptive apology takes some of the wind out of her sails, but not all of it.  “Seriously?  Even _I_ wait a couple of weeks before telling people what I do for a living.”  She’s very protective of Kathryn’s reputation in the business, and loose chatter with the wrong people is just the sort of thing to compromise the integrity of their operation.  “How long have you known her, anyway?”

Walsh gives her an easy smile, then nods to one of his passing employees, a young guy with dark hair and a vaguely familiar face. She must have seen him in here before, Emma thinks. “We’ve talked online and on the phone, but this morning was the first time in person.”

That would explain the relaxed feel of their interaction, Emma reasons silently, but there’s still something she can’t shake, something she can’t quite put her finger on.  Then again, maybe it’s just the oldest reason in existence - she’s jealous of her boyfriend laughing and smiling with a beautiful woman from his own world. “She’s quite something.”

“Really?” Walsh shakes his head at her, slowly rubbing his hand up and down her back in a way that never fails to bring her shoulders down from her ears, as her third foster mother used to say.  “Personally, I thought she was a little scary.”

She laughs and, by the time they reach the entrance of the store, the tension across her shoulders has magically vanished, and she’s more than ready to make up for skipping breakfast.  Pushing open the door for her, Walsh turns to her, his boyish face lit up in a hopeful smile. “Do you forgive me for boasting about you to a complete stranger?”

She tucks her hand into the pocket of his overcoat. “You really think I’m amazing?”

He gently tugs the end of her braid. “Every day.”

Emma’s heart twinges.  She desperately wants to be reminded of all the good things between them, and maybe this is a good place to start. “In that case, you can buy me lunch,” she tells him, “and we’ll call it even.”

He curls his hand around her braid.  “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to eat at my place?”

She looks at him.  They haven’t done more than _literally_ sleep together for over a month, thanks to his tiredness, her period or mismatched schedules, all very normal reasons.  Now he’s gazing at her as though he wants to skip lunch and head straight to dessert, and suddenly it seems like a pretty good idea.  She needs _something_ to ease the ridiculous tension that’s scratching at her insides, and who better than the person who knows exactly what she likes?  Ignoring the irritating little voice in her head that tells her she’s kidding herself if she thinks this will solve anything, she smiles at him. “I guess I could be persuaded.”

~*~

Despite a decade spent wallowing the very depths of human treachery, it never fails to amaze Killian what people will say and do to someone that they once professed to adore.  He skims through his initial consultation notes about a new client, a woman whose husband syphoned every cent from their joint bank account and moved to the other side of the world without so much as leaving her a note, remembering the shocked grief in the woman’s voice as she’d poured her heart out to him.  _I_ _thought we were happy._

Perhaps the constant exposure to this kind of nonsense is the reason he’s never felt the urge to legally bind himself to another person.  Then again, perhaps it’s because he found the one person who might inspire him to do such a thing years ago, but fate and timing had other ideas.

On his laptop screen to his right, he knows an open tab with his preferred real estate website is waiting for his consideration.  He could be in a new place by Christmas (Thanksgiving would be pushing it, what with giving the others enough warning, he certainly owes them that much), and the thought is more depressing than he would have thought possible.

Despite the current complications, he’s grown far too used to sharing a home with Emma Swan.  The thought of coming home to an apartment without her in it is not a cheery one, but the alternative isn’t tenable. Neither of them can carry on the way things are, and if one of them is going to vacate, it’s going to be him.  He knows her history perhaps better than anyone, and he would go to the ends of the earth to make sure she didn’t have to leave yet another place she’d come to think of as home.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he dashes off a note to Ariel for Monday morning, giving her a brief rundown on what documents he needs prepared for this particular matter, then closes the file.   He can feel his laptop practically humming with the unhappy promise of that sodding real estate site, and finally he spins his chair and pulls the computer towards him. 

Perhaps he might just check his emails first, though.

The first ten are work-related, the next three from businesses hoping to help him with his penis size, and two from Nigerian princes hoping to send him buckets of money.  He briefly considers forwarding the Viagra emails to the Nigerian princes (something on which to spend their hard-scrounged cash), then his eyes widen as he sees the sender of the most recent email.

It’s from Jane (or, as Victor had taken to calling her, the Hiking Woman).  The last time he’d seen her, she was storming out of the apartment after calling him several choice names, all of them related to his reluctance to take their relationship to another level and spend three days alone with her in the wilderness.  Despite her angry departure, she was a lovely girl, and it certainly hadn’t been her fault that there had been no real spark as far as he was concerned.  As he’d told Victor, the sex had been perfectly fine, but when you start going to bed to cover up the fact that you’ve got nothing to say to one another, that’s a problem.

There appears to be no angry words or emoticons in the subject heading, so he takes a chance and clicks it open.

_Hi Killian. I know The Rules say that I shouldn’t email you, but I really want to apologise for ending things on such a bad note.  I tend to assume too much too quickly, and I’m just sorry we got our wires crossed so badly.  If you’re free, let me buy you a drink next Saturday night in the interests of being a mature adult?  No expectations, and no hiking, I promise.  Jane_

He closes his eyes. 

He shouldn’t.

God knows, his life is complicated enough.

But really, what is he supposed to do?

Forsake all others?

Join the priesthood? 

It’s just a drink, after all.

Taking a deep breath, he hits _reply_.

~*~

It’s almost midnight when she arrives home, and she slips her shoes off as soon as she gets through the door.  The boots she’s wearing might be her favourites, but in the middle of the night they tend to sound like a herd of galloping ponies on the wooden floorboards, and she’d hate to wake her housemates.  The apartment is silent, but someone has left the hallway light on, as well as the one in the kitchen, and she silently thanks whoever wanted to keep her from breaking her neck in the darkness.

She locks the front door behind her, leaving the latch off (she has no idea if Killian is home), then pads in the direction of her bedroom.  When she hears the soft tread of someone else’s feet along the hallway, coming from the direction of the kitchen, she _knows._ She’d know those measured footsteps anywhere, and she turns to face him, determined to try to keep things as normal as possible.

“Hey.”

To her relief, he seems happy to pretend last night’s conversation didn’t happen.  “Sneaking in just before your carriage turns into a pumpkin, I see.”  

She smiles at his teasing tone, a rush of _something_ warming her chest, making her throat feel tight.  “Something like that,” she tells him, doing her best not to stare at him. Carrying a glass of water, he’s dressed in his usual nighttime uniform of white t-shirt and checked sleep pants, and his dark hair looks as though he’s repeatedly run his hands through it.  _He looks tired_ , she thinks. “Rough day at the office?”

(She both does and _doesn’t_ want those dark smudges under his eyes to be because of her.  The story of her life when it comes to Killian Jones.)

He smiles, and again she feels her throat catch. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”  Rising his glass of water to her in a mock toast, he starts to walk past her. “See you tomorrow, Swan.”

She should just let him go.  She can’t. “Killian?”

He stops in his tracks, turning slowly to face her.  “Yes?”

She leans against the wall of the hallway, her hands laced together in front of her in the hope of preventing herself from doing something stupid like trying to touch him.  “Still friends?”

Just as it was last night, Killian’s brief smile is tinged with regret. Just like it did last night, it almost cracks her heart in two.  “Of course, love.”

Any other time, he might have given her a quick one-armed hug, or deliberately bumped his shoulder against hers.  Now, though, she sees a new wariness in his eyes, the three foot-gap between them feeling as wide as the fucking Grand Canyon, and she _hates_ it.  So much for pretending that last night hadn’t happened.

She’d spent two hours in Walsh’s bed this afternoon.  He’d done all the right things and made her feel good and she’d been able to shut out the world and the noise in her head, just as she’d hoped. But now she’s here, trying to find the right words to explain what she herself can’t begin to understand, her palms damp and her belly filled with butterflies, and she sees this afternoon for what it really was.  She’d been running away. 

Maybe she still is.

_I hate you sometimes._

“Good.” Wrapping her arms around herself, she gives Killian a quick nod that makes her neck feel stiff, knowing that nothing has been fixed and everything is still all wrong between them. “See you in the morning,” she says softly, but he’s already walking away, and she has no idea if he hears her.

~*~

 


	7. Chapter 7

~*~

 

It says a great deal about his current state of mind that he’s actually glad it’s Monday morning and he has a legitimate excuse to be up and out of the apartment by seven o’clock.   He holds his breath as he approaches the kitchen to grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, not knowing who he might encounter, but the sound of soft, feminine humming has him relaxing. 

Emma Swan does not hum Disney tunes.

“Good morning, milady.”

As always, Mary Margaret looks impossibly bright-eyed and far too cheerful for such an early hour.  “Good morrow to you too, kind sir.”

He smiles as he snags a bottle of water from the door of the refrigerator.  He can’t remember when the two of them fell into the habit of Ye Olde English speak, but it amuses him greatly each time it happens.  Yet another thing he will miss if he makes good on his vow to himself and finds alternate accommodation, he realises, and his heart sinks.  Perhaps now is as good a time as any to broach the subject.  “Ah, do you have a moment?”

“I have ten of them.” Mary Margaret drains her tea cup, then returns it to its saucer with a delicate _clink_.  Cupping her chin in her hands, she looks at him steadily.  “What’s up?”

He leans against the kitchen counter top, slowly shifting the bottle of water from one hand to the other, trying to find the most polite way of saying what he needs to tell her. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps I might look into finding a place of my own after Thanksgiving.”

“Really?” Disappointment flashes in her green eyes.  “I thought you liked living here.”  She puts her hand to her chest, frowning.  “Did I do something?”

Her reaction is so very Mary Margaret that he can’t help smiling.  “No, not at all.” 

She looks at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an explanation, and he realises that perhaps he should have prepared a speech in advance.  “I’ve enjoyed my time here very much-”

She raises her dark eyebrows. “But?”

“I just feel that it’s the right time to learn to live with my own company again.”  Abruptly becoming aware that he’s tapping his fingers on the bottle of water he’s holding, he still his hands.  “I’m sure you and David will want a place of your own eventually, and despite what many people think, this time of year is actually quite a good time in which to peruse the rental market-”

She cuts him off, as polite an interruption as he’s ever experienced. “Is this because you and Emma have been fighting?”

He stares at her, hoping his dismay at her sudden astuteness isn’t written all over his face.  “Not at all.”

Tilting her head, she gives him a look that he suspects works extremely well on the ten-year olds in her charge.  “You’re not a very good fibber, you know.”

Biting back a sigh, he decides to admit defeat while still skating around the heart of the matter.  It’s what he does for a living, after all. “Granted, there has been some tension recently between myself and the Lady Swan.”  He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, resisting his usual habit of tossing it into the air and catching it again.  “However, I simply feel that the time has come for me to leave the nest, so to speak.”

“Ah, I get it.” Mary Margaret purses her lips.  “We’re cramping your style.”

He opens his mouth to dissuade her of this notion, then catches himself.  She’s just handed him a ready-made excuse, and he’d be lying if he said there isn’t some small part of him that’s perversely pleased at the thought of her passing this theory onto Emma.  “A gentleman never tells tales, milady.”

Laughing, she pushes back her chair and gets to her feet, moving to the sink to rinse out her tea cup and saucer.  “Well, we’ll miss you.”  She glances at him over her shoulder, her gaze uncomfortably shrewd.  “Emma, especially.”

Feeling as though he’s just taken a step onto what he thought was firm ground only to discover it was, in fact, quicksand, he forces a smile, wondering what she’d say if he sat her down and told her every little thing that’s been going on right under her nose in her own home.  “I’ll have you all around for tea, how’s that?”

“Do you want to break the news to the others, or will I?”

Again, he wishes he’d taken the time to think through his responses to her inevitable questions.  “I’ll be home late this evening, so if you wish to let them know, that would be grand.”

Mary Margaret dries her hands on the dishtowel and falls into step behind him as he leaves the kitchen.  “You’ll do anything to get out of your night to cook, won’t you?”

Picking up his satchel from the couch, he shoves his water and apple into its depths, doing his best not to even glance in the direction of the hallway leading to Emma’s closed bedroom door.  “You’ve seen right through my ruse, good lady, and now I shall flee in shame.”  

She shakes her head at him.  “Just make sure you eat something more than that apple for breakfast, okay?”

He pauses in the act of slinging the satchel over his shoulder, the concern in her voice touching a tucked-away corner of himself he thought long forgotten. “Yes, Mum.”

She smiles.  “You sound like Emma.”

It’s an innocent comment, but it still manages to make his pulse stutter.  “See?  A sure sign of spending too much time together, if ever I heard one.”   Picking up his car keys, he gives her a quick salute.  “Farewell, milady.”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes as she heads towards the master bedroom, but he can see she’s still smiling.  “Get thee to work, wastrel.”

A moment later, he pulls the front door closed behind him, thinking again that it’s not just Emma he is going to miss.

 

~*~

 

Emma’s had better Mondays, or at least ones that didn’t involve sitting on her butt in her car for most of the day, but that’s just how her job rolls.   A patchy night’s sleep for what feels like the tenth time in a row doesn’t help, neither does her inability to stop thinking about the way she’d stopped Killian in the hallway last night and asked him if they were still friends like she was a freaking five year-old. 

God, her face gets hot every time she thinks about it.

The thing is, she can’t bear the thought of losing him. Okay, there are so few people who have come into her life and _stayed_ in it, but she doesn’t want him around just to make up the numbers.  Despite all their squabbles and the way they can’t seem to stop trying to push each other’s buttons, he _gets_ her.  He gets her in a way that not even Mary Margaret and David do, and the thought of him vanishing from her life makes her chest and throat feel tight and itchy, like her allergies have descended all at once.

Being stuck doing surveillance is never a good thing when you want to escape from your own thoughts, but she does her best, thankful for the lifeline of her phone.  She half-heartedly browses gossip websites and plays as many games as she can stomach, and by the time she contacts Kathryn to let her know that the guy hasn’t showed and ask if she should call it a day, she’s managed to get through Monday without texting Killian.

Not that her thumb didn’t hover over his name in her contact list half a dozen times, though.  Normally, if she was stuck somewhere like this, she’d while away the time by texting him obscure 90’s movie quotes for him to guess.  She knows he cheats with the answers (there’s no way he could have known that line from Hackers), but that only makes it more fun.  The fact that she can’t bring herself to send him even the most harmless of messages is just another sign that things between them are, to put it bluntly, fucked up.

It’s her week to use the apartment’s car space, and she finds herself searching the street for Killian’s SUV as she turns into the drive.   There’s no sign of it, but that means nothing.  Last month, he’d had to park on the next block five days running, something the rest of them had heard about on a daily basis.

The apartments smells of someone else’s cooking (her favourite kind) when she opens the door, and she smiles.   It’s funny to think that after so many years of trying to find a ‘real’ home with one foster family after another, it’s _this_ place that turned out to be the one that ticked almost all the boxes on her mental list. 

Almost, but not quite.  She’s not sure ‘fall in love with your housemate and make life awkward for yourself and everyone around’ would make anyone’s list.

After dumping her things in her room, she finds David in the kitchen, hovering over the rice cooker. 

“Hey.”

“How was your day?”

“I sat in my car for five hours waiting outside a house in Cambridge waiting for a twenty year-old bail skip who never showed up to his day in court last week.”  She pulls a face as she heads for the refrigerator.  “Needless to say, he didn’t show up in Cambridge today, either.”

“Five hours?” David pokes the rice with a fork. “Sounds like fun.”

“A laugh a minute,” she tells him as she unearths a can of soda, “but seeing as I get paid even if the bad guy doesn’t show up, I can deal.”   

“What was this bad guy’s particular penchant?”

Popping her soda can, Emma slouches against the counter beside him. “Oh, apparently he likes to steal the fancy cars belonging to his parents’ neighbours and sell them to the highest bidding chop shop.” 

“His parents must be very proud.”

“Well, they refused to cough up his bail this time around and he had to lower himself and use Midas’ services.” She takes a long swig of her drink, then pats her chest as the bubbles seem to hit her airways.  _She really has to stop drinking this stuff_ , she thinks. “Which, of course, is why Kathryn’s very eager for me to haul his ass in and get his court date rescheduled, even if it means I have to sit in my car for the rest of the week.”

Apparently finished fluffing the rice to his satisfaction, David replaces the lid and rubs his hands together.  “Well, I hope you haven’t been snacking on pop tarts all day, because-” Emma bites her lip, literally _feeling_ the guilt wash across her face, and David shakes his head at her.  “As I was saying, I hope you’re hungry.”  He points to the slow cooker on the counter top.  “Voila. Chicken surprise.”

She grins.  “What’s the surprise?”

“That I remembered to throw the ingredients into the slow cooker before I left for work this morning.”

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she starts pulling plates out of the cupboard. “It’s Monday, though.”  Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about asking where Killian is, but things are far from normal at the moment, and she finds herself dancing around the question. “I didn’t think it was your night to cook.”

“It’s not, but Killian’s working late again.”   David looks at her as he clunks the metal basket of flatware onto the counter top.  (The faux antique container is yet another thing from Walsh’s store, and having seen the retail price of those things yesterday, Emma’s very glad she got it for free.) “Anyone would think he was avoiding coming home.”

“Don’t start.”  She wants to think that the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach is hunger, but she knows better. “Where’s your better half?”

A loud yawn, then the familiar shuffle of Mary Margaret’s slipper-clad feet, answers her question. “I’m here.”

“There’s my sleeping beauty.” David beams, sweeping around the island kitchen counter to kiss the top of her head. “Feeling better?”

“Gosh, how is it seven o’clock?”   Mary Margaret’s face is pale, her eyes puffy with sleep.  “I swear I just closed my eyes for a few seconds.”

Emma frowns at her friend.  “Are you okay?  Not coming down with something?” 

“Just a niggling headache all day.” Mary Margaret sighs.  “That’s the life of a school teacher, though.”  Lifting the glass lid of the slow cooker, she smiles faintly at the contents. “There’s only so much vitamin C and garlic you can consume to ward off these things when a dozen kids in your class are already sniffling and sneezing.”

The next fifteen minutes are uneventful, with plates being passed and Emma and David debating whether they should open a bottle of wine or stick with soda. Soda wins, but only after Emma points out that they’ve had wine (and quite a lot of it) five nights running, and maybe it’s time to give their livers a break.  “You sound like Killian,” Mary Margaret tells her with a smile, and Emma looks at her, startled.  Before she can deny the accusation (she certainly does _not_ sound like him), her friend goes on.  “Speaking of Killian, now that you’re both here, I can tell you the bad news.”

And just like that, Emma’s heart is racing like a frightened jackrabbit.  “Bad news?”

Mary Margaret spears a piece of chicken with her fork. “Unless we decide to have a guest room instead, we’re going to have to interview potential roomies again, I’m afraid.”

Emma puts down her own fork, her appetite suddenly fleeing. Across the table, David has stopped eating as well. “Why?”

“Killian’s planning to move out.”  The other woman shrugs.  “He didn’t say exactly, but I got the feeling he wants to live by himself.”

Emma stares down at her plate, feeling as though her stomach has turned inside out. Luckily, David seems happy to do the questioning. “When did this happen?”

“I talked to him this morning, just before I left to go to work.”

David sighs, then goes back to eating his dinner. “That’s disappointing.”

“Well, you can’t blame him, I guess.  It would be hard for a single guy to have the privacy he needs with the three of us here all the time.”  Mary Margaret sips at her water.  “Maybe there’s a new woman on the scene, I don’t know.”

Emma looks up at that, unable to stop the words tumbling from her mouth. “Did he say that?”

Mary Margaret just shrugs, but Emma can feel David looking at her from across the table.  “No, I just picked up on what he wasn’t saying, if that makes sense.”

Carefully avoiding David’s gaze, Emma pushes a small pile of rice around on her plate. “Did he say when?”

“After Thanksgiving, I think.”   The other woman breaks off, then takes another sip of water.  “Uh-oh.”

David frowns, sliding his arm around the back of her chair.  “You okay?”

“I think I overestimated my powers of recovery,” Mary Margaret says in a thick voice, then she pushes back her chair.  “Excuse me.”

Emma knows that as soon as she and David are alone, he’s going to _start_ , and he doesn’t disappoint her. “Emma.”

Maybe if she keeps staring down at her plate, he will magically take the hint and drop the subject. “Don’t.”

“Come on.  You and I both know why he might want to move out.”

_That_ tears her attention away from her uneaten dinner, and she shoots him a glare across the table. “Are you saying it’s my fault he’s leaving?”

“No.” He’s using his ‘concerned father’ voice on her again and, to her horror, it makes her feel like she might cry. “I’m just saying that maybe he’s decided there’s no point sticking around.”

She drops her head into her hands, pressing her palms hard against her temples, because suddenly Mary Margaret’s not the only one with the niggling headache. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know, but this is how love works.  It’s messy and unpredictable.”

She closes her eyes at the mention of the word _love_. “You are _not_ seriously trying to tell me that he’s in love with me.”Just saying the words makes an odd ache hollow out her chest, and she looks up at David, afraid of what his answer might be. 

“I just think you owe it to yourself, _and_ to Walsh, to think long and hard about what’s really going on in your _heart_ , not just your head.”  He picks up both his (empty) and Mary Margaret’s (almost untouched) plates, taking them to the kitchen counter. “And talk to Killian before I do it for you.” He looks at her over his shoulder as he transfers his girlfriend’s uneaten dinner in a plastic container.   “You two are driving me nuts.”

After a comforting pat on the shoulder (it only makes her feel worse, but he’s trying, and she loves him for it), he leaves her, heading towards the master bedroom to check on Mary Margaret. 

Knowing that she’ll only end up with a headache if she doesn’t eat something, Emma manages to finish half of her dinner, then follows David’s lead and stashes the leftovers in the refrigerator.  After checking in briefly with the patient (Mary Margaret is feeling better but gone to bed early, just to be on the safe side) she and David end up in front of the television, watching a marathon of nineties action movies and _not_ talking about Killian. 

Of course, David doesn’t have to mention him for Emma to be thinking about him.  They’re watching the trashy movies he loves to hate, after all.   Emma plays games on her phone involved stopping small animals from falling off coloured blocks, one eye on the television, half-smiling at David every time he makes a cheerful sound of appreciation at the clichéd lines being tossed about on the screen.

Aside from Mary Margaret flaking out so early, it’s a pretty normal Monday night. Or at least it would be, if not for the empty spot on the second couch that looms large in Emma’s field of vision, no matter which way she looks.

David calls it a night around ten (he’s got a media meeting in the morning to kick off the annual ‘a pet isn’t just for the holidays’ campaign) but Emma stays where she is.  David’s right, she realises.  She’d been wrong to brush off Killian last night when he said they should talk about what’s going on between them, but it had all been too much, too soon, too real. 

Being with Walsh has always been easy.  Safe, even.

Being friends with Killian has always made her feel safe, too. She trusts him with her life and everything she owns.

She just doesn’t know if she can trust him with her heart.

Maybe David’s right, she thinks as she stares at the television screen with increasingly tired eyes, she owes it to herself to find out if there’s something there.  Something that’s actually worth taking that risk.

She forces herself to wait up until midnight, finally admitting defeat when she wakes up with a start, finding herself slumped sideways on the couch and an infomercial for a steam mop playing on the television. Rubbing her eyes, she cranes her neck, but the door of Killian’s bedroom is still half-ajar, just as it had been after he’d left for work this morning. She won’t be having a heart to heart with him tonight, that’s for sure. 

She’s almost relieved, because she has no idea how the hell to kick off the discussion other than to blurt out that she likes him and does he like her, and she’s almost thirty, not a ten year-old with a crush.

When she shuffles into the kitchen at seven-thirty the next morning (after another extremely average night’s sleep) he’s nowhere to be seen.  David’s already headed off to the shelter, and Mary Margaret has taken a sick day and is tucked in bed with a box of tissues and a steaming cup of Earl Grey with lemon and honey.

It’s not until she’s putting the finishing touches to her makeup in the bathroom, a room strangely devoid of any evidence that its other user has visited it recently, that it occurs to her that maybe he didn’t come home at all.  Maybe Mary Margaret was right when she read between the lines, and there _is_ someone new in his life. 

The thought sits sour and hard in the pit of her stomach, and she feels her jaw tighten as she pulls her favourite red leather jacket out of the closet.  She has another day of tailing that Cambridge bail skip ahead of her, and she almost feels sorry for him if he decides to show his face today, because right now, she’s in the mood to punch something (or someone) very hard.

 

~*~

 

Groaning, Killian puts a hand over his eyes as the beep of his phone alarm insists on telling him that it’s 6 a.m.  His back aches, and his mouth feels like he’s been chewing on the stuffing of his pillow in his sleep.  Slowly, he opens his eyes to stare up a ceiling that, while familiar, definitely doesn’t belong in his bedroom.

It’s not the first time he’s slept on Victor Whale’s couch, and he’s very much afraid it won’t be the last. 

His current state is completely his own fault, of course.  He should have known better than to take his friend up on a suggestion of late dinner and a drink after he’d finally finished up at the office just after nine last night.  The late dinner hadn’t been the issue.  The problem had been, as it always seems to be when he catches up with Victor, that one drink had swiftly become five.    Then there had been more food of the deep fried variety, then a few more drinks, and suddenly catching a taxi home to his apartment had seemed all too hard when Victor’s loft was within walking distance of the last pub they’d been politely asked to vacate.

And now it’s Tuesday morning, he hasn’t been home and he feels like he’s slept on a mattress stuffed with empty tin cans all night (he’s sure it’s a lovely couch, but it’s a foot shorter than he is).   Adding insult to injury, he doesn’t have time to go home to shower and change before he’s due at the office, where he has the sinking feeling he has a nine o’clock appointment with a new client.

Something soft and smelling of fabric softener is dropped on his head, and he belatedly recognises the sound of footsteps approaching his makeshift bed.  “Wakey, wakey, sunshine!”

“Sod off.” He pulls the clean towel from his face and slowly sits up.  His head doesn’t hurt and there’s no detectable urge to throw up, so he takes that as a victory.

“Is that any way to talk to the friend who listened to you ramble on and on about some girl last night and then offered you shelter when you were too drunk to find your own ass, let alone your wallet, at the taxi stand last night?”

He narrows his eyes across the room at Victor, who is already dressed and looking nauseatingly refreshed. “I,” he announces with a modest attempt at dignity as he rises to his feet, “do not ramble, even at the height of inebriation.”

“I beg to differ, _mate._ ” His friend looks greatly amused.  “Although, I have to say, it was pretty impressive stuff, the way you talked about that chick for almost an hour and I still don’t have the faintest fucking idea who she is.”

_Oh, God._

If he’d been rambling about Jane, how she’d emailed him and how he’d replied and organised to catch up over a drink on the weekend, Victor would have been able to surmise that fairly quickly.  He’d been talking about Emma, he realises dully, and his long habit of keeping his feelings for her strictly to himself had managed to survive the onslaught of whiskey he’d thrown at it last night. 

“Come on, hop to it, Jones.”  Victor waves a hand in his direction.  “If you want to clean up and borrow something to wear to the office that doesn’t reek of Ireland’s finest liquid export, then make it snappy. I’ve got a conciliation conference at the other side’s office at nine-thirty, and they’re all the way out in the buttfuck ‘burbs.”  He’s staring at his phone, rolling his eyes at whatever he’s reading. “God, what an asshead.”  Looking up, he gives Killian another ‘hurry up’ motion with his hand.  “Ah, while we’re both young?”

Forty-five minutes later, Victor’s dropped him at the train station on his way to ‘bludgeon some sense’ into the claimant and his lawyers.  After thirty seconds’ worth of trading insults regarding drinking stamina and a thank you regarding the bed for the night, Killian slams the passenger door shut, lifting his hand in a wave as Victor pulls away from the curb. Wrapping his scarf around the collar of his borrowed shirt, he makes the train with a few seconds to spare, and is finally alone with his thoughts.

Pity they’re such poor company.

After the slight hiccup of ending up on Victor’s couch on Monday night, his week falls into a faintly depressing pattern. In short, early to rise, late to arrive home. It’s easy to find enough work to occupy him until late each evening, even easier to find somewhere near his office to grab a late dinner before heading back to his desk.  He’s careful not to allocate the extra billable hours to his clients’ files.  After all, it’s not their fault that he’s incapable of confronting the woman he loves after she’d made it painfully clear that she’d chosen elsewhere. 

For a few days, it works.  The apartment is quiet and still when he arrives home late each evening, and it seems that not even domestic tension can affect Emma’s adherence to her morning alarm time of seven o’clock.   In the past, there have been weeks when he’s gone days without seeing her, and thought nothing of it.  Now, though, nervous anticipation prickles at his chest every time he puts his key in the front door, and every time she’s nowhere to be seen, he cannot decide if he is disappointed or relieved.

By Thursday evening, he’s beyond weary, and the thought of staying late at the office and picking over the affidavit of a woman determined to ensure that her soon-to-be-ex-husband won’t ever get to see his newborn child isn’t an appealing one.  While Killian certainly understands her rage (sleeping with your wife’s friend while your wife is in hospital after giving birth to your child is _beyond_ bad form), he can’t help feeling a head-shaking sense of sympathy for the man.  Throwing away one’s whole life for a few hours of pleasure is a painfully common theme in his clients’ tales of woe, and the urge to concoct a form letter simply consisting of ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking?’ often comes upon him. 

As soon as he opens the apartment door, he knows his luck has run out.  He can, he realises with a start, smell Emma’s perfume. The familiar scent teases his nose, bringing to mind a litany of memories. Laughing until his ribs ached, allowing her to steal the last pop-tart simply to enjoy her smile of triumph, the way she would manipulate him into watching the movie _she_ wished to watch when they were sprawled on the matching couches so skillfully that he’d frequently forget his original choice of film. 

The way his whole body had come alive when she’d kissed him.

Admitting defeat, he hangs up his coat and scarf on the rack near the door, then drops his satchel and tie onto his bed.  As he reaches the end of the hallway leading to the kitchen, he can hear the low murmur of female conversation, telling him that Emma’s not alone.  Again, he’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed. 

“Evening, ladies.”

Emma picks up the knife that’s just clattered to the counter top, her expression flustered. “Howdy, stranger,” she mutters without meeting his gaze, returning to her task of chopping onions.  He knows her tear-stained face is a result of her chopping endeavors and not any upset, but the sight still troubles him. 

“You okay there, Swan?”

She swipes the back of her sleeve against her reddened eyes, still determinedly staring down at the chopping board in front of her.  “Never better.”

“I offered to do it, but you know how she is,” Mary Margaret says from her seat at the kitchen table, busily trimming the ends off green beans before dropping them into a metal colander to her right.  “Insisted on doing it.”

“That’s because you’re even worse than me when it comes to onions,” Emma tells her, her voice thick with tears, and Killian is gripped by a tender exasperation.  She _will_ insist on chopping onions despite the fact that she’ll be weeping for the next hour. Crossing the kitchen, he leans across her and gently takes the knife from her hand. 

“Allow me, love.”  His traitorous pulse quickens at their closeness - at the warmth of her, and the scent of her skin and hair mingled with that wicked perfume - but he allows himself nothing more than a simple nudge of his shoulder against hers.  “Go wash your pretty face, Swan. You’ll be right as rain in a few minutes.”

She finally looks at him, her lips softly parted on what he’s sure is a protest (stubborn wench that she is), their eyes locking.  He grows absolutely still, caught in the web of her green gaze, then Mary Margaret chimes in behind them. 

“He’s right.”  She _tsks_ at Emma’s red eyes. “Actually, maybe take an antihistamine too, or you’ll be sniffling and rubbing your eyes all night.”

“Yes, Mom,” Emma mumbles with a smile at the other woman, and Killian blinks.

_You sound like Emma._   Bloody hell.  The school teacher was right, as per usual.

Emma moves away from his side to rinse her hands under the cold water tap. “Just don’t let me forget and drink anything tonight, okay?” She’s addressing them both, her back to the room. “I’d rather not have any more chunks of my life missing.”  She dries her hands quickly, then vanishes in the direction of the bathroom.

Killian frowns at Mary Margaret.  “Chunks of her life?”

“Oh, you know, when you two decided to wallpaper the apartment in pizza boxes last week.”  Killian watches her deft movements as she snaps off the ends of the green beans. “Her hay fever had been acting up so she took some antihistamines after dinner, but then _you_ had to go and challenge her to vodka shots.”  Mary Margaret shakes her head at him, but he barely notices.  He’s far too busy putting two and two together and coming up with the reason why Emma doesn’t remember kissing him.  “The poor girl had a prize-winning hangover the next morning, I can tell you.”

She heads to the sink to rinse the beans, leaving Killian raising his eyes to the heavens in her wake, the pieces of the Emma puzzle clicking into place with little sense of victory.  Two tiny white pills are the reason he’s been carrying the weight of their shared secret alone for the last week, and he can’t help but think that modern medicine has a lot of answer for in this case.

The next few minutes are something of a blur.  He enquires of Mary Margaret as to what they’re planning for dinner (steak and as many vegetables as she can coax them all to eat), finishes off the task of chopping the onions, then asks if there’s anything else she’d like him to do. 

When she points him in the direction of the cast iron grill pan on the stovetop, he raises his eyebrows.  “Are you sure?  Where’s Dave?”  David’s love of a perfectly cook steak is only matched by his refusal to admit that he might not be the only one in the apartment capable of producing such a thing.  “I’d hate to step on his cooking toes.”

“He’s working late tonight.”   Her dimples flash as she smiles at him.  “And _we’re_ hungry _.”_

Grinning, he rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands.  “In that case, milady, it would be my pleasure.”

They work together in a companionable silence for a few moments, but he’s far from relaxed.  Every sound he hears from the rest of the apartment makes his nerves tighten, a situation that doesn’t improve when Emma finally reappears, now wearing sweatpants and a matching hooded top, her face washed bare of make-up. Distracted, he almost burns his thumb on the edge of the cast iron pan he’s currently heating to the point of smoking, and he swallows back several colourful words.

_God_ , he’s missed her.

Mary Margaret says something about pearl barley (at least it’s not that quinoa business again, he thinks) and is engaged in a search of the pantry when Emma clears her throat. “I hear you’re planning on moving out.”

Making sure his fingers are clear of the hot pan, he turns to look at her.  She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, her own fingers fidgeting with the zipper of her hooded sweatshirt.  The tip of her nose is pink from her reaction to the onion fumes, the mass of her glorious hair pulled back in a scrappy bun. She’s the best thing he’s seen in days, and she’s looking at him as though she wants him to tell that she’s heard wrong.

He can’t, though.  He needs to take a step back for both their sakes, and he can’t keep living on the tiny scraps of hope he finds hidden in her words and the way she looks at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in person.”  He knows Mary Margaret is probably listening, but he needs Emma to know that he had no wish to slight her.  “Work has been quite mad this week.” 

She nods at this, her pale throat working as she swallows hard.  If she’s angry at him for letting her hear his news through a third party, she’s obviously not about to tell him.  “So, have you found a place?”

Taken off guard by the tremor in her voice, he tells her the truth.  “I haven’t had time to start looking as yet.”

Well, it’s almost the truth. He could have _made_ time, if he’d truly wanted to do so.

He sees her take a deep breath, then Mary Margaret’s triumphant cry from the depths of the pantry snaps the moment of connection stretching between them.  “Found it!”  Emma turns away, pulling out plates and silverware before heading towards the refrigerator, and again, he bites back a choice few words.  _Damn it._

“I _knew_ we still had some pearl barley left,” Mary Margaret announces happily as she clunks a jar of what looks like dirty brown rice onto the counter top.  “David hates it, but he’s not here, so-”

“What he doesn’t eat won’t hurt him.”  Looking up, he catches Emma watching them, one hand on the refrigerator, her expression oddly wistful.  “Want to learn how to cook the perfect steak, Swan?”  He’s a fool, he knows. Four scant days after he’d made a vow to himself that he would keep his distance, he’s trying to bond with her in the most shameless of ways.

He could have saved his breath, because she simply shakes her head. “Actually, I need to answer a couple of work emails before dinner,” she mutters, a bottle of water clutched in her hand.  “You guys can manage without me, right?”

A smiling Mary Margaret waves her away.  “I seem to remember you promised to make pizza tomorrow night, so you’re free to go.”

Despite the fact he knows she’s wearing the sweatpants that sit low on her hips and make the swell of her arse look even more enticing, he doesn’t watch Emma as she leaves the room.  He’s a glutton for punishment, obviously, but even he has his limits.  Plus, he’d rather not let the grill pan catch fire.  _At least the exhaust fan over the stove works_ , he muses, the idle thought immediately lifting him up and dumping him back in the midst of a memory of a steam-filled bathroom and Emma staring at him as though she was truly seeing him for the first time.

Glutton for punishment, indeed.

He busies himself with the task of making dinner, hauling various ingredients out of the refrigerator and pantry to make a sauce that hopefully will help him feign enthusiasm at the prospect of eating bloody barley with his steak.  Mary Margaret watches with interest, waving a hand of protest only when he unearths a miniature of Irish whiskey that he and Emma had bought to add to their coffee on St Patrick’s Day earlier this year but had then completely forgotten, thanks to a raucous after-work session at the Irish pub closest to his office.   “Oh, can you leave that out?  Is that okay? I’m not feeling the love for anything boozy at the moment.”

“Your wish is my command.” He slips the small bottle back onto the seasonings shelf without attempting to explain that the alcohol content after cooking would be miniscule at best.  He’s shared an apartment with two strong-willed women long enough to know that it pays to pick one’s battles.  “With enough mustard and Worcestershire sauce, we’ll never notice the difference.”

Emma reappears fifteen minutes later, and he frowns at the sight of her once again dressed in her jeans and leather jacket.  “I’ll have to take a raincheck on that steak, guys.  Kathryn’s sent through an urgent job.”

He truly hopes that his disappointment isn’t etched all over his face.  “That’s a pity, Swan.”  He turns off the flame under the grill pan to let the meat rest, then wipes his hands on a paper towel.  “I’ll ensure that your evening repast is safely squirreled away for your later enjoyment.”

“Seriously?” She smiles at him, _really_ smiles at him for the first time in what feels like days.  “You couldn’t just say that you’ll stick my dinner in the refrigerator?”

He waves the tongs in his hand in a florid gesture, feeling ridiculously giddy in the wake of that smile. “One seeks to embrace the poetry of everyday words and everyday life, wherever one finds it.”

She shakes her head at him. “Idiot.”  She’s still smiling, though, and something tight and tense inside his chest starts to fray and loosen.  “On that poetic note, I’m out of here.”  She turns to Mary Margaret.  “This will probably be an all-nighter, so David can use our car space when he gets home if he wants.”

“I’m sure he’d only too glad not to have to search the street for a space after all the long-winded meetings he’s having today.”  Mary Margaret reaches for her phone where it’s sitting on the kitchen table.  “Just let me know if you finish earlier, okay?”

“Sure thing.”  She strides out of the kitchen without a backward glance.  “Night, all.”

Killian hefts a sigh as he finishes making the sauce for the steak, his enthusiasm somewhat diminished.  Perhaps he’s being fanciful (he’s been guilty of such things before) but the room suddenly seems drained of atmosphere and warmth, despite his present cheerful company and the heat from the stove. 

“She’s been working such long hours lately, I worry about her sometimes.”  Mary Margaret’s tone is faintly absent-minded, and a glance across the kitchen confirms that she’s busily tapping out a text message to David.  She does, however, spare him a quick flick of her dark eyes as she goes on. “Just like someone else I could name, present company _not_ excluded.”

Before he can make a vague disclaimer (which would be entirely untrue) about the hours he’s currently keeping, Mary Margaret finishes sending her message and pops up beside him at the stove, watching as he adds and stirs and tastes.  She takes a long, appreciative sniff of the sauce he’s created, then smiles at him. “So! What kind of apartment are you looking for?”

It seems he’s in for another round of Q & A, and he thinks longingly of the tiny bottle of whiskey in the pantry.  Wondering how quickly he can distract her with a DVD or an enthusiastic discussion about her latest crop of students, he returns her smile. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

It’s the story of his life at this point in time, to be honest.

 

~*~

 

Leaning against the front booking desk of the city police station, Emma rubs her aching shoulder, hoping she didn’t ruin her second favourite leather jacket when she hit the ground.  Leather jacket aside, she thinks as she does a tiny finger wave as her car thief from Cambridge is lead away by Boston’s finest, it was totally worth it. 

Another dirtbag taught a lesson (that they won’t learn, she knows, but _still_ ) about how signing a bail bond contract actually means something, and another hefty whack of cash to put towards her ‘be somewhere hot for the holidays next year’ fund. 

Too bad she’s too late (and too financially compromised) to organise an island getaway this year.  The thought of escaping, well, _everything_ , for a week or two is almost enough to make her mouth water. 

(Okay, it’s a weird analogy, but she stands by it.)

Her shoulder has started to ache by the time she gets back to the office.  Swinging the Bug into the empty bay next to Kathryn’s gold Audi, she makes a mental note to stop at the drugstore and pick up a tube of Icy Hot on the way home.  It’s something she and Mary Margaret try to keep on hand in the bathroom cabinet at all times, but they live with two men who think they’re much better at sports than they actually are.  Kicked shins and corked thighs (whatever the hell _they_ are) after ‘friendly’ rugby games are a common occurrence, and Emma has no idea if their stock has been depleted over the last month. 

Given that it’s after three in the morning, she’s not surprised that the front door to the office is locked.  She buzzes the security intercom, and Kathryn’s voice crackles out at her. “Friend or foe?”

“What about a tired but victorious employee?” Emma asks the intercom, and she hears the other woman laugh.

“I hope you didn’t rough him up too badly.”

Emma grins. “He’ll live.”

A moment later, she’s dumped her tools of trade - cuffs, taser, pepper spray – onto her desk, and given Kathryn a weary wave.  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell are you still doing here?”

“I’m waiting on a few files to come through from one of my contacts in Sydney about a case that I will tell you all about tomorrow when I’m not wired on this stuff.”  Her boss lifts a can of energy drink, which explains why she’s talking at a million miles an hour, Emma realises.  “I thought I’d be done by midnight, then it got to the stage where I would have just woken Freddy and the kids if I’d arrived home in the middle of the night, so I decided it was just easier to stay here.”

Emma feels the usual wave of admiration that grips her whenever she remembers that not only has Kathryn taken her father’s modest business and turned it into a roaring success, she’s also married to an extremely handsome man and has two children under five.  “Anything I can do? Want me to file that paperwork tonight?”

Kathryn grins, and Emma sighs.  _She really should learn not to ask these sorts of questions,_ she thinks.  “Any coffee in the pot?”

“Just made a fresh batch.”

“Wow, it’s like you _knew_ I was on my way back to the office.”

The coffee helps, but the sound of both her and Kathryn’s fingers flying over their respective keyboards is almost enough to lull her to sleep.  She obviously stops typing long enough for Kathryn to notice the silence. “You’re not falling asleep on me out here, are you?”

“Maybe a little.”  Emma rubs her eyes, feeling the residual tenderness from her earlier encounter with the onions.  “I had to take some anti-allergy mediation earlier, and it’s supposed to be non-drowsy, but-”

“Now it’s my turn to say don’t take this the wrong way, but you do look a little tired.”  Kathryn makes a soft _aha_ sound, then followed by several clicks of her mouse, and Emma can only assume that the files she’s been expecting have finally landed in her inbox. “Nice work, Simmonds,” she hears the other woman tell their unseen contact in Sydney, then Kathryn suddenly appears in the doorway of her office, casting a critical eye over her employee. ‘Obviously you’re still enjoying working for the best boss in the world, but are things okay elsewhere?”

Emma looks at her, and decides that nothing could tempt her to share her current set of woes with her boss. “Yeah, fine.” 

Kathryn nods, her expression making it plain she’s not buying Emma’s polite brush-off for a moment. “There’s a chance of some out-of-town work coming up, maybe as soon as this weekend. You up for it?”

Emma blinks determinedly. “Sure.”

“Great.” Her boss looks pleased. “After that, though, I really think you should take some time off over Thanksgiving.”

“No point.”  Her voice sounds reedy and thin, but Emma decides to put that down to tiredness. “Walsh has to stay in town the whole Thanksgiving weekend for work stuff, and my housemates are going out of town.”

“The whole apartment to yourself for four whole days. Sounds like bliss.”  Her boss’ eyes take on a dreamy glaze, and Emma has to admit, if she had two children under five and worked the hours that Kathryn does, she might relish an empty apartment for four days too.

Once upon a time, she _would_ have relished it.  But she doesn’t, not anymore.  Emma’s lived alone. In fact, she’s lived alone most of her adult life.  She used to think that she liked it, that it was what suited her best, until she moved in with David and Mary Margaret.  _And Killian_ , a niggling voice prompts her.  Two weeks after she’d moved into the second biggest bedroom, she realised that all those other places had just been a place to sleep.  None of them had felt like home. 

She really doesn’t want to lose that feeling, but every day she can feel it slipping away from her.  She thinks of how _easy_ Mary Margaret and Killian had been with each other as they prepared dinner tonight, and the tension she could literally feel vibrating through the air from him as soon as _she’d_ come into the kitchen. 

Tomorrow’s Friday, which means it will officially have been a week of this weirdness.  Funny, she thinks, it feels much longer than that.

“You alright, Emma?”

“Sorry. Zoned out there.”  Her eyes feel gritty and her shoulder hurts, and the thought of her bed is almost enough to make her swoon.

“Go home.” Reaching down, Kathryn pats her on the shoulder.  “And don’t show your face around here again until midday at least.”

“Thanks.” Emma doesn’t bother calculating how many hours of sleep that means she might be able to grab.  The sooner she gets home, the sooner she can be horizontal.  She’ll think about her messed up sleep pattern later. 

She remembers her aching shoulder at the last moment, doing a quick cash and dash in the all-night drugstore close to their apartment.  By the time she’s closing her own front door behind her, it’s after five a.m., and she sends up a silent prayer of thanks that it’s November rather than July.  The worst thing in the world when you’re dead tired is to turn off your bedroom light only to hear the chirping of the freaking dawn chorus outside your window. 

She trudges her way through getting ready for bed, saving the application of the dreaded Icy Hot until last.  She and Mary Margaret had tried buying the no-scent version in the past, but the males in the apartment had vetoed that decision. (Something about the placebo effect not being properly activated without the comforting familiarity of the eye-watering stench of menthol - no prizes for guessing whose sound bite _that_ was, she thinks.)

It’s five-thirty by the time she’s finished rubbing the stuff into her wrenched shoulder so hard that she swears she almost sees smoke rising from her skin.  She’ll have an impressive bruise there by tomorrow, but that’s nothing new.   Afterwards, she scrubs her hands to the point of redness (overkill maybe, but she’s rubbed her eyes after this ritual once before, and she has no desire to revisit that particular sensation) and flicks off the bathroom light.  As she reaches her bedroom, she automatically glances across the apartment to where Killian’s door is shut tight.  The thought suddenly occurs to her that if she can hang in there for another thirty minutes, his alarm will go off. 

_And then what?_ she asks herself. Exhausted and perfumed by _eau de_ locker room, she literally sways on her feet as she stands in the hallway, gripped with indecision.  Finally, the combination of her bed and common sense win out, and she slips into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

She falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, swirling away in a cloud of warm menthol, and doesn’t resurface until ten o’clock the next morning. To her relief, the ache in her shoulder has become a very faint twinge. Maybe there’s something in Killian’s placebo theory after all, she thinks wryly.

Once she’s showered, she heads to the kitchen in search of coffee and food. On the top shelf of the refrigerator, she finds a plastic lunchbox with a large pink post-it note and plastic fork sitting on top of it. Pulling it off the shelf, she stares at the cartoon swan that _someone_ has drawn on the post-it note, then reads the words scribbled below it.

_A steak fit for a stake-out, milady._

She pries open the lid to find he’s actually cut the meat and vegetables into bite-sized pieces, perfect for someone who might need to eat sitting in their car while waiting for a court-date-skipping-douchebag to show their face.

It’s perfect and stupid and ridiculous and she wants to hate him for turning her into the kind of person who stares at a fucking plastic lunchbox and fork (he’s wrapped that in a napkin, for fuck’s sake), feeling as though tears are jammed in their throat.

She doesn’t hate him.

She loves him.

She’s always loved him.

She loves him, and he’s planning to move out after Thanksgiving.

He’s going to leave.

The thought sends a sharp, stabbing sense of panic through her. 

The thought of telling Walsh that it’s over inspires the same feeling of panic, but she has to end it. She knows that now, even if nothing happens with Killian, because he deserves someone who isn’t in love with another man.

If she’d been expecting a ‘fork in the road’ moment (literally, she muses, thinking of her carefully packed leftovers), this is it. She’s got less than two weeks to try to sort out her head and her heart and her life, and she’s already agreed to go out of town for a job for Kathryn, maybe as soon as Sunday and for God-only-knows-how-long.  

_Fuck._

No pressure, then.

Trying to ignore the irony in having the overly loud _tick tock_ of the mock vintage clock on the kitchen wall as her private soundtrack, she sighs as she rubs her thumb over the ridiculous cartoon swan. To borrow a familiar choice phrase from its artistic creator, _bloody hell._

~*~

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience with the wait for this chapter. RL conspired to keep me from this story for almost two weeks, so trust me, I’m as relieved as anyone that this chapter is finally finished. All I will say is SLOW BURN and that it’s always darkest before the dawn. P.S. This chapter contains canon dialogue that was not written by me. P.P.S. Jane and Walsh are in this chapter. Just saying.

~*~

 

Eating dinner in Mary Margaret’s company is usually a restful experience. This evening, however, she has him (and his future plans) firmly in her sights, and it takes twice as long to eat their dinner as it usually does, given that he seems to be answering yet another question in between each bite.

By the time they’ve stacked the dishwasher and left the cast iron grill pan to soak (always an unfortunate side-effect of cooking steak), it’s after nine o’clock and he has begun to pray for the sound of David’s key in the front door lock.

“Sure, a one bedroom loft sounds great now, but what happens when you meet Miss Right?”

He’s glad Mary Margaret is behind him as they make their way towards the living room, because he’s quite sure his expression is the very picture of exasperation. “In that unlikely event, I’ll just have to be sure not to have any dire quarrels late at night that might necessitate the need for a second bedroom,” he returns lightly over his shoulder, hoping fervently that he can find a television program to ensnare her attention.

She laughs as she settles herself into the corner of the couch she and David usually favour, tucking her legs up underneath her. “Emma was right.”

At the sudden mention of Emma, coming on the heels of a discussion of potential lover’s quarrels and bedrooms, the television remote almost slips from his grasp. “About what?”

“You really do love flowery language, don’t you?”

He quickly finds the History channel, knowing his interrogator is a sucker for its programming. “I would have thought you would approve of such a habit, given your vocation.”

“I _do_ approve.” She stretches her arms above her head, her lips twisting in a smiling yawn. She’d spent the day on a field trip with her class, and even to Killian’s untrained eye, she looks exhausted. “I think it’s charming.”

“Thank you, milady.” He gives her a mock bow before dropping onto the other couch. _If only he could be certain that his other female housemate found it charming,_ he thinks. He remembers the way Emma had smiled at him even as she’d pulled him up on his vocabulary choices before she’d had to dash off into the night to chase down yet another oxygen thief. She isn’t immune to his charms, he knows that, but as he’d told his brother, fancying someone is no guarantee that deeper feelings exist.

He stares at the educational wildlife program he’s chosen (his companion is already avidly watching), his head a million miles away. If Emma hadn’t been so utterly uninterested in pursuing with him in all the years they’ve known each other (different cities and relationship statuses aside, there is always a way if two people wish for the same thing), he might be tempted to take her behaviour over the last week as a sign that she’s had a change of heart.

Kissing him last Thursday night had been the start of it, but their every interaction since has been laced with possibility, silent questioning and a simmering awareness of each other. It’s always been there as far as he’s concerned, but now it’s being mirrored back at him, an echo of his own longing. The past week has been confusing and exhilarating, to say the least, and he can’t help wondering if something besides irritation with Walsh and vodka-based decisions had been behind that kiss.

He glances across at Mary Margaret. Aside from his brother, she’s the only one who might know that his feelings for Emma aren’t as platonic as advertised. That particular conversation was so long ago, it’s possible she’s forgotten entirely, but there’s only one way to find out. “Speaking of Emma,” he begins, and Mary Margaret looks at him with undisguised interest, tempting him to abandon the conversation. He doesn’t, though, because he’s on the verge of looking for a new home, and the time for dithering has well and truly passed. “Do you remember the first day we all met?”

She beams at him. “I certainly do.”

He runs his hand through his hair, wondering if perhaps he’s about to open a rather large can of worms, as the saying goes. “Do you recall the conversation you and I had that day? I asked you if Emma was seeing anyone, do you remember?”

Something unreadable flashes in her dark eyes. “I do.”

“I’ve been wondering.” He does his best to sound casual, but it’s far from his best work. “Did you mention our conversation to her at all?”

She hesitates, and his breath catches in his throat, then she shakes her head. “I didn’t say anything to her at the time, no.” She picks at the hem of her pink sweater, her gaze sliding back to the penguins waddling across the television screen. “She was with Neal, and she’d been through way too many ups and downs over the years for me to complicate things by tossing _you_ into the mix.”

He frowns, his thoughts relentlessly circling three particular words - _at the time_ – but she doesn’t give him the chance to speak before she’s voicing a question of her own. “Why do you ask?”

He looks at her, years of friendship stretching out between them, and decides a small sampling of the truth couldn’t hurt. “Things have been oddly strained between Emma and I lately,” he begins carefully, “and it occurred to me that perhaps there was a reason why she might feel awkward around me.” Catching her eye, he gestures towards himself with a mocking hand. “Apart from my dashing good looks, of course.”

If he had to pick a word that described Mary Margaret’s expression at this point, it would be _conflicted._ There’s a blush on her cheeks, and she seems to be having trouble meeting his eyes. “Killian, this is something you really should discuss with Emma, not with me.”

A dozen red flags shoot up inside his head (since when does Mary Margaret not wish to advise her friends on affairs of the heart?) as the sound of the front door being unlocked echoes through the quiet apartment, quickly followed by David’s cheerful greeting. “Hi honey, I’m home.”

Killian waves at the other man as he appears in the hallway. “Hello, sweetheart.”

David rolls his eyes, then bends over the back of the couch to kiss the top of Mary Margaret’s head. “Sorry, _darling_ , but I’m very much taken.” He smooths his hand over the curve of his girlfriend’s dark hair, glancing quickly at the television as he does. “Penguins? Really? This is what the two of you do when you’re left to your own devices?”

Mary Margaret reaches up to take his hand, pulling it to her lips for a kiss. “How was work?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.” He blows out a loud breath as he looks at them both in turn. “Wonderful ideas and good intentions strangled by red tape and bureaucracy, but we’re slowly hacking through it.”   His mouth curves in a tired smile. “Some days it’s like trekking through endless jungle with no idea of where you’re going, only that you know you have to get to the other side.”

“Let your words be your machete, mate.” Killian gets to his feet, realising he can politely make his excuses now that David is home. “That’s always worked for me.”

“Ah, but you’re much better at it than I am.” David scrubs one hand over his face. “Maybe I should bring my lawyer to the next meeting, let you do all the talking.”

Killian grins. “You couldn’t afford me, _mate_ ,” he informs him with glee, David’s offended glare only making his grin widen.

“We saved some dinner for you.” Mary Margaret’s weariness seems to have vanished in the face of her partner’s arrival, and Killian feels an unfamiliar wave of envy as he watches them smile at each other. “Emma too, but yours is the one without the pearl barley.”

Killian thinks of the two almost-identical plates of dinner in the refrigerator. “Spend some quality time with your missus, Dave. I’ll fetch your dinner for you.”

His friend is already reclining on the couch, his fair head close to Mary Margaret’s. “Pro bono, I hope?”

Killian laughs as he heads towards the kitchen. “Free of charge, I promise.”

Once he’s in the kitchen, he tries to distract himself with domestic tasks – putting David’s dinner into the microwave and unearthing the small container of leftover sauce to be reheated as well – but finds himself replaying Mary Margaret’s words over and over.

She hadn’t said anything to Emma _at the time._ Which implies, he thinks as he methodically removes the plate of food from the microwave and replaces it with the container of mustard sauce, that she _has_ shared that conversation with Emma at some point in time.

He stares unseeingly at the glowing green countdown on the microwave’s timer. He has the feeling he’s gotten all he can out of Mary Margaret on the subject (he knows a tight-lipped witness when he sees one), and all he seems to have done tonight is to muddy the waters further. If Emma has always known that he’d wanted to ask her out back in the day, as the saying goes, then she’d have no reason to fear being rebuffed if her feelings for him had changed. Nor would she have any reason to keep any attraction she felt for him a secret, given that she could feel confident he had, at least at one time, felt the same way.

Moving on auto-pilot, he obeys the summons of the beeping microwave. He’s just finished assembling David’s belated dinner on one of the many trays the household seems to have accumulated (he avoids the ones he knowshave come from Walsh’s shop – it’s petty, but he doesn’t care) when the man himself appears in the kitchen doorway. “Wow, that smells great.”

“Reheated steak, mate.” He tosses a knife and fork onto the tray with a clatter. “You sure you can cope?”

David grins. “I’m so hungry, I don’t care if you cooked it in the microwave to start with,” he laughs, and picks up the tray, eyeing the food with obvious delight. “You didn’t have to do all this, but I’m very glad you did, because I am _starving._ ”

“Good deeds take it out of a man,” Killian tells him, wiping the counter top with a damp cloth. “Now go spend some time with that pretty schoolteacher of yours, will you? I’ll be off to bed soon.”

David pauses in the doorway, tray in hand, his smile dangerously shrewd. “Not going to wait up for Emma? I thought you two had a tea and cookie ritual thing going.”

Killian tightens his grip on the damp dishcloth he’s holding, remembering the last time they observed that particular ritual. “She’s pulling an all-nighter, and I need my beauty sleep, I’m afraid.”

David laughs, shaking his head, then he’s gone, the sound of his footsteps gradually fading. Killian looks at the time, then at the refrigerator. Mary Margaret was right about one thing. Emma has been working brutally long hours lately, and he knows damned well that she will have been eating those ridiculous pop tarts in her car (without even toasting them first, which merely compounds the horror of it all) instead of having actual meals. He suspects that her assigned plate of leftovers will go ignored in favour of something faster and less complicated, and the thought spurs him into action.

Perhaps other adults without children have a collection of plastic lunchboxes, perhaps it’s simply a by-product of sharing a house with a schoolteacher, but he is spoiled for choice when it comes to finding a suitable container. He manages to find one without too many embellishments, then proceeds to turn Emma’s uneaten dinner of steak, vegetables and the dreaded pearl barley into something she can easily eat while she’s in her car or at her desk at work. He chops everything into manageable bite-sized pieces, then finds an unused takeout fork, wrapping it carefully in a paper napkin.

He knows he’s being ridiculous and there’s a chance she will ignore this version of her leftover dinner as well, but he doesn’t care. He’s on a mission now, and he will see it through to the end.

He’s about to slide the container back onto the top shelf of the refrigerator when he spies the pile of post-it notes on the counter top, next to the cup of pens and scissors and other random items that always seem to accumulate in such places.   Grinning, he reaches for the bright pink pad of post-it notes and a thick black marking pen, deciding he might as well make his efforts as hard to ignore as possible.

(He’s never been so tempted to add an X to the bottom of a note in his life.

He decides against it, because there’s asking for trouble, and then there’s Asking for Trouble.)

A moment later, he’s in the bathroom cleaning his teeth, depressingly certain in the knowledge that Emma Swan isn’t about to invade his privacy, mentally going over his schedule for the next day. Fridays can be an unpredictable time in his line of work. He very rarely has meetings with new clients (decisions relating to one’s matrimonial status tend to be made after a harrowing weekend, he’s found) but he does expect the usual flurry of last-minute calls involving conflict over access and visitation arrangements. Business as usual, which is always a good thing, and yet he already knows that his heart won’t be in it.  

He bids the entwined couple on the couch a swift goodnight as he makes his way to his bedroom. They spare him a smile and a wave (at least David managed to eat his dinner before the cuddling began, Killian notes as he spies the empty plate on the coffee table) and he finally escapes to his room and solitude, the heavy thunk of his door shutting out the soft murmuring sounds of penguins and housemates alike.

If he lived alone, he’d never have to escape into his own room to find solitude, he muses. Indeed, solitude would be all around him, from the moment he walked in the door to the moment he fell into bed.

It’s not a comforting thought.

He sets the alarm on his phone, not bothering to resist the urge to once again look at the picture that Emma had snapped in their bathroom. As always, heat lurches in the pit of his stomach at the sight of her mouth fused to his and the way her eyes are closed in what he _knows_ damned well is the same pleasure that had wracked his own body.

 _God_ , he wants her.

He wants her more than he’s ever wanted any woman, but that’s not the worst of it.

He’s in love with her, and he has a date with another woman on Saturday night.

Not for the first time, he thinks of his brother’s succinct summary of the situation. _You’re fucked, mate._

Killian sweeps the bloody photo away from his sight with a swipe of his thumb, turning out his bedside light with an irritated hand. There has to _some_ way to unfuck his life, to put it in the coarsest of terms. He’s untangled far more complicated emotional webs than this in the line of duty without breaking a sweat. Surely he can finally put all his years of experience dealing with the irrational decisions of the human heart into good use for his own benefit for once?

He breathes out heavily as he stares at his bedroom ceiling through the darkness. If the term _physician, heal thyself_ has a legal variant, surely it’s the position in which he’s found himself. Solving everyone’s problems but his own has been a very handy way of keeping those problems at bay, but enough is enough, and it’s time to finally stop and pay the sodding piper.

A week ago tonight, Emma had kissed him. He thinks of her soft words, a match for the soft despair in her eyes as she’d gazed at him, her hands fisted tightly in the front of his shirt, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go. _I’m saying I_ _really_ _hate seeing women at our breakfast table the morning after you’ve fucked them._

He closes his eyes, his heart filling with equal measures of triumph and frustration, because he’s now certain what’s between them is far from one-sided. She wants him, too. Perhaps she even loves him, if only a little. She just can’t bring herself to admit it when she’s sober.

It occurs to him, on the cusp of sleep, that perhaps removing himself from the apartment isn’t necessarily admitting defeat, but issuing a challenge instead. Perhaps it won’t be the end, but a beginning.

There’s only one way to find out.

 

~*~

 

Emma stares at her boss, hoping she doesn’t look as overwhelmed as she suddenly feels. “You need me to go to New York tonight?” There’s a squeak in her voice, and she hastily clears her throat. “I thought you said Sunday at the earliest, and _that_ was a maybe.”

Kathryn gives her an apologetic smile. “I know, and I’m sorry if it’s messed up your plans.” She pauses, just long enough for Emma to know what’s coming, then taps a thoughtful finger to her lips. “I _could_ ask Leroy to take the job, but-”

“No, it’s fine.”

Leroy is a middle-aged freelancer who takes pride in knocking almost all his skips unconscious during a takedown. When he’s sober, he’s a bad-tempered nitpicker. When he’s had a drink, he’s still a bad-tempered nitpicker, only louder.   Kathryn only uses him when they’re desperately short-handed, so Emma knows it’s an empty threat, but it’s still enough to prod her into agreeing to head out of town two days earlier than she expected.

Which means, of course, unless she can perform a miracle and arrange to see Walsh and Killian (in that order) this afternoon and have a heart-felt conversation with both of them in turn, sorting out her personal life is going to have to wait until she’s done in New York.

She tells Kathryn that it’s all good, waits for the other woman to email through the file, then spends the next hour reading, alternating between sipping coffee and water. It’s mid-afternoon, and maybe she should eat something too, but she’s not hungry, not after the pile of leftovers she’d eaten before leaving the house this morning.

She couldn’t _not_ eat it, not after discovering that ridiculous lunchbox Killian had left for her. Her stomach had been churning with anxiety as much as her head had been, but something about those stupid little bite-sized pieces had made her heart ache, and she’d eaten every scrap.  

(The post-it note is on her dresser in her bedroom. She couldn’t bear to throw it out.)

The New York job seems simple enough. Woman defrauds her employer to the tune of two hundred grand, employer gets wise (and smart) and employs a forensic accountant on the lowdown to go through the books. Woman is caught, admits her guilt, is charged and subsequently granted bail. She’d claimed to have only a few hundred bucks left of the money she’d stolen, so enter Midas Bonds.   Court date arrives, the woman doesn’t show.

 _Big surprise,_ Emma thinks. Her target has been living a life of luxury on her employer’s dime, and the prospect of a ten by ten jail cell being her next home obviously wasn’t in her plans. Seriously, Emma doesn’t know what some of these judges are smoking, because there are some people who just _shouldn’t_ be released on bail. Then again, if they weren’t, she and Kathryn and all the other staff would be out of a job.

 _Circle of life_ , she muses, making herself smile as she goes over the section of the report that details the woman’s last known movements. She’d used her ATM card only that morning in Brooklyn, which explains the accelerated time frame of the job, and Emma casts a resentful glance at the woman’s mugshot. Long, dark hair in no particular style and a face that might be considered attractive if it weren’t for the scowl and death-glare she’s aiming at the camera lens.  

Kathryn’s sources in New York have been more than thorough, and there are half a dozen cheap motels and boarding houses listed as possible places to run the woman to ground.   Thankfully, Emma won’t be staying in any of them. One of the many things she appreciates about Kathryn is that the woman knows what it’s like to be a female traveling alone, and always books their accommodation with extreme prejudice.

 _Right,_ Emma thinks as she closes down her laptop. _Go home, pack, call Walsh to let him know, send a message explaining her change of plans to Mary Margaret, drive the three and a half hours to New York, check into hotel, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, start scouring the city to this light-fingered bitch as soon as possible, then get home before the madness of Thanksgiving traffic descends on the roads. Once you’re home, make a date to see Walsh, tell him that you need to end things, then try to get Killian alone and (possibly) make a fool of yourself by telling him that you’re in love with him._

Emma lowers her head to her now closed laptop, and only the price of said piece of equipment stops her from gently smacking her forehead against it. The part where she finds and apprehends a felon in a city of millions suddenly seems like the easy bit.

Before she can even think of coming clean with Killian, she has to end things with Walsh, in person, and not just with a fleeting five minute conversation, either. She owes him that much. She might not love him the way she’s supposed to, but she doesn’t want to hurt him.   God knows, she’s been in his shoes more than once. She suddenly feels like she’s five years old again, asking one of her many foster carers if the iodine that’s about to be applied to her scraped knee is going to sting. _This is going to hurt, isn’t it?_

She’s pretty sure it is.

~*~

 

The text from David arrives just before five o’clock on Friday afternoon, and he happily puts aside the letter he’s reading (it seems that his client Sean’s pompous windbag of an estranged father has managed to find a lawyer who is even more of a pompous windbag than himself) to pick up his phone.

_Emma has had to go to New York on a job and Mary Margaret wants a quiet night at home to catch up on her reading. Want to grab a beer after work?_

Killian frowns. Emma hadn’t said anything to him about the possibility of going out of town. Then again, their communication lately has been patchy, to say the least. He dashes off a quick reply to David, telling him he’d be delighted and if the other man wanted to make his way to Killian’s office, they could patronize one of the many fine drinking establishments nearby.

_As long as I don’t have to put up with Whale._

He grins. It would almost be worth asking Victor to join them, just to see the look on David’s face. However, the radio silence from their old college friend is a strong indication that his attempt at snaring that comely waitress last week was successful, and Killian doubts he’d have a spare evening to spend with mere mortals such as themselves.

He leaves his office a little after six, shaking his head at the sight of the fetchingly dressed mountain man waiting for him in the foyer. David’s working day obviously didn’t involve trying to schmooze any government officials on behalf of the shelter, so he’s dressed for comfort rather than style. Which means, of course, he’s dressed as though they’re going on a camping trip to Alaska, making Killian cast a wry smile downwards at his own suit and overcoat ensemble. “You feeling the cold today, mate?”

David shoots him a withering glance even as he claps him on the shoulder. “It’s easier than carrying the damned thing,” he mutters, tugging at the front of his hooded coat. “Once we’re inside whatever overpriced joint you drag me into, I can take it off.”

“So suspicious so early in the evening.” Killian laughs as they make their way out of the foyer and onto the street. “You asked _me_ to meet you for a beer, remember?” David looks unconvinced, and Killian shakes his head. “I won’t lead you astray, Dave, I promise.”

“That’ll be a nice change,” his friend mutters, his face lighting up a few moments later when Killian stops outside a no-frills bar that’s one of his personal favourites. No pomegranate martinis and no bloody mason jars, either. “I apologise. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Killian does an eye-roll of his own as he pushes open the heavy glass door. “One day you’ll learn, mate.”

Once they’re installed in a booth and David has shrugged out of his heavy coat, Killian wonders how long he’ll have to wait before the other man’s real reason for meeting him for a drink outside the apartment is revealed.

As it turns out, not too long at all.

David waits until they’re both in possession of a beer, then clinks his bottle against Killian’s and gives him a bright smile. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Killian feels his eyes widen. “Sorry?”

David takes a long sip of beer, and puts his elbows on the table, leaving forward and fixing Killian with a disconcertingly steady gaze. “Mary Margaret tells me that you’re planning to move out.”

Killian takes a sip of his own beer, hoping to ease a suddenly dry mouth and ruing the fact that he didn’t spot such an obvious trap sooner. Mary Margaret has expressed a wish for a quiet Friday night at home many a time, but never once has that sent her boyfriend out into the streets in search of beer. “I didn’t realise you felt so strongly about having my company around the place, mate.”

David sighs. “I’m not talking about me and you know it.” Picking up his beer bottle, he tilts the neck of it towards Killian, as if to reinforce his point. “This is about Emma.”

He might argue and emote for nine hours a day, Killian thinks, but that’s what the firm pays him to do. He’s off the clock now, and he’s really not in the mood for a lecture, even from a good friend. Perhaps _especially_ from a good friend. “You know, I’m starting to think you had an ulterior motive in asking me out, Dave.”

He may has well have saved his breath, because David just powers ahead. “Has it ever occurred to you to sit down and tell her exactly how you feel about her?”

The pleasant tang of beer on his tongue suddenly sours. It seems his secret is no longer his to keep, if indeed it ever was. “How I feel about her?”

David makes an exasperated sound as he lifts his beer to his lips. “Are you really going to sit there and try to convince me that you despise Walsh because of his questionable business practices and not because you’re in love with his girlfriend?”

Killian leans back against the padded seat of the booth, admitting defeat in more ways than one. He could protest his innocence until he’s blue in the face, but he knows there’s no point, not with David scenting after the truth like a sodding bloodhound. “There’s no point in saying anything to her, mate.”

His friend stares at him. “How did you even get that law degree?” The amount of scorn the usually mild-mannered David manages to inject into the words takes him by surprise. “Seriously, you got it in a box of cereal, didn’t you?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Emma is already in a serious relationship with a man, and it isn’t me.”   He reaches for the small laminated menu listing the bar snacks, dully thinking that perhaps he can shut David up with the right amount of chicken wings. “Given we share a roof, she’s had more than ample opportunity to be seduced by my good looks and charming personality.” He tosses the menu across the table to David, who catches it on instinct, it seems. “I’m not what she wants, mate.”

Saying the words actually _hurts,_ like he’s been winded _. Bloody hell._ He glances down at the polished surface of the table, taking a deep breath before he looks up at his friend. When he does, just as he had when he talked with Mary Margaret the night before, he sees something that looks a lot like indecision sweeping across David’s face.   “Look, will you promise me something?”

He’s not in the mood for a lecture _or_ making promises, and because it’s David, he doesn’t bother sugarcoating the fact. “I doubt it.”

David, as expected, returns the favour. “Before you go and do something stupid like sign a lease on another apartment, will you at least talk to Emma?”

“And what do you suggest I say to her?” He can hear the sharp frustration in his voice, but quite frankly, he doesn’t care. “Darling, I love you, let’s run off into the sunset and live happily ever after?” He finishes his beer in what feels like three gulps, then smacks the empty bottle onto the table top with more force than polite society expects. “Real life doesn’t work that way, mate.”

David looks pained. “Look, I’m sorry to be so pushy, but the four of us have a really good thing going,” he says in a quiet, almost sad voice. “I’d hate for us to go our separate ways because _some_ people can’t bring themselves to have an open, honest dialogue with someone they obviously care about.”

Killian says nothing for a moment, feeling off-kilter and twitchy, as though David’s words are scratching at his skin. Finally, he clears his throat. “If that’s your idea of an apology, Dave, I’m afraid it’s fallen far short of acceptable.” He lifts his hand to signal the closest staff member, suddenly feeling the need to get well and truly shitfaced. “There’s one way to make it up to me, though.”

His friend’s expression is wary, and with good cause. “What’s that?”

“I intend to get nicely trashed this evening, and I don’t plan on doing it alone.” The waiter has come to their table and is waiting with ill-disguised impatience. “Two neat Jamesons, mate. No ice,” he tells the kid, vaguely enjoying the look on David’s face as his friend realises the implications of the order. “That okay with you, Dave?”

David looks as though he’s very sorry he forsook the safety of their apartment for this den of iniquity, but he finally nods. “Sure. Why not?”   As the waiter saunters away, he runs an anxious hand through his hair. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, right?”

Killian gives him a tight smile. “That’s the spirit.”

 

~*~

 

_Hi, sweetheart. Uh, I guess you’re still on the road and not answering your cell, just like the good driver you are. I just got your voicemails. I’m so sorry I wasn’t available when you called. These meetings are killing me, I swear. Do you know how long you’ll be out of town? I can’t believe I missed my chance to kiss you goodbye. I’ll just have to look forward to giving you a very warm welcome when you get home. Good luck catching the bad guy, sweetheart and uh, call me when you get this? Love you._

Emma listens to Walsh’s voicemail one last time, then presses delete. She’d called his cell phone four times before she’d had to hit the road this afternoon, but she hadn’t managed to catch him.   Her own conscience isn’t exactly clear, but she can’t help wondering what the hell was so important that he only noticed he had four missed calls from her more than three hours after she’d tried to reach him.  

She’d had more luck reaching Mary Margaret than she had Walsh. Her friend had made sympathetic noises that she’d had to go out of town sooner than expected, then asked if Emma knew when she’d be back, and if she’d made any plans for the holiday. Knowing the other woman was worrying that she’d be alone over the Thanksgiving weekend (something that Mary Margaret could probably never imagine for herself), Emma had made a point of cheerfully telling her not to worry, that she was actually looking forward to a few days of doing absolutely nothing.  

_“I’ll be back before you and David leave to visit your Moms, okay?” Well, she sure hoped she would be, but nothing was ever certain in her line of work._

_“I just hate the idea of you being alone on Thanksgiving.” Somehow, the obvious concern in her friend’s voice managed to make Emma feel as though she was five years old. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? Ruth and Ava would love to see you!”_

_Emma smiled into the phone. Mary Margaret Blanchard, the eternal optimist, not even considering the fact that someone might not appreciate an unexpected houseguest for the holidays. “I’ll be fine, I promise. At this point, I’m planning to sleep for four days straight.”_

Mary Margaret had said a few more things about Walsh having to work on Black Friday, and Emma had made all the right noises, and then they’d said goodbye, with Emma promising to text each night in accordance with their old college ‘proof of life’ agreement.

After she’d finished talking to Mary Margaret, Emma had sat on her unmade bed for almost ten minutes, knowing she should be packing, her phone cradled in her hand as she’d stared into space. She’d wanted to call Killian, but it had been mid-afternoon on a work day and he’d either would have been in a meeting or had his ‘work voice’ on, and she hadn’t wanted to have some weird phone conversation that would haunt her the entire way to New York.

She’d finished packing her bag in record time, making sure she had her gun license within easy reach before she’d made an extremely half-hearted attempt at making her bed. When she was done, she’d glanced around her room, checking for anything she might have forgotten. When she’d seen the bright pink post-it note with the ridiculous (and adorable, she’s not going to lie) drawing of the swan on her dresser, it had occurred to her that she hadn’t actually said _thank you_ for her neatly packed leftovers.

A few moments later, she’d slipped a post-it note (lime green this time) underneath Killian’s closed bedroom door.   Then, before she could retrieve it and tear it into a million pieces (and then eat the evidence), she’d left the apartment, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her, the November air cold against her face.

The drive had taken her almost four hours, and she’d devoted more than one stretch of highway to wildly veering from thinking that leaving that note had been the worst idea she’d ever had to wondering if it would make him smile when he saw it.

(Maybe she should have flown after all. She would have had less time to brood.)

Now, she dials Walsh’s number, staring unseeingly at the generic artwork on the wall of her hotel room as she listens to his cell phone ring unanswered at the other end, then switch through to his voicemail.

She doesn’t leave a message. What the hell would she say? _Hi, how’s things? That’s great. Hey, guess what? When I get back to Boston, I’m planning to break up with you because I’m in love with another man. Bye!_

Tossing her phone onto the empty side of the queen-sized bed, she sinks down into the mattress, her hands tucked behind her head. Nine o’clock on a Friday night, and she’s in a pretty decent hotel in one of the most amazing cities in the world. _Too bad she’s got no one to share it with_ , she thinks darkly, suddenly feeling very far away from everything and everyone. It’s a strange sensation, and not something that usually troubles her on an out of town trip before.

Emma closes her eyes. She’d always told herself that home was a place that, if you left it, you just _missed_ it. Missed it so much that there was no room for doubt about where you truly belonged.

It’s not Boston she’s missing right now, though, or her boyfriend of almost two years.

It takes a very long time for her to fall asleep.

 

~*~

 

“This is your doing, I suppose?”

Killian squints in the direction of the irritated female voice, wishing the owner would show some respect for the thumping in his temples. The knock on his bedroom door had been brutal enough. “You’ll have to be specific, love.”

The blurred outline of Mary Margaret moves into his field of vision, but even blurred, he can see that her hands are on her hips. “David’s lying on the bathroom floor, muttering something about Irish whiskey being the Devil’s handiwork.”

“Ah.” Closing his eyes, he rolls onto his side, the wretched pounding in his brain easing slightly as he mashes his face against the cool fabric of his pillow. It’s Saturday, thank God, and he has until seven o’clock tonight to turn back into a respectable human being. Until then, he plans to wallow in self-pity and nausea. “Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall your man making some boast about being able to match me drink for drink.”

He hears her _humph_ of disapproval. “We _were_ going antiquing this morning, but that’s not going to happen now, obviously.”

Despite his current state, a smile tugs at his lips.   “I’m sure he’ll be devastated.”

“You’ll keep, Jones.” His bedroom door is closed with what he can only describe as an affronted clunk, and there is finally silence, blissful silence.

It’s after noon the next time he opens his eyes, and the lack of pounding in his head is a welcome discovery. To his relief, his usual ritual (however drunkenly performed) of drinking as much water as he could stomach before falling into bed seems to have done the trick. That doesn’t mean he isn’t gagging for a hot shower and coffee, though, and he slowly gets to his feet, relieved anew that he seems to have reached the level of ‘vaguely human’ without too much effort.

There’s a piece of paper on the floor near his closed bedroom door, a post-it note so luridly green that it hurts his eyes. _Takeout menu? Bar tab?_ Bending to pick it up (he may be feeling vaguely human, but his head still remonstrates with him sternly that he’d do such a thing), he stares at it, his sluggish pulse immediately doing an odd little jig when he recognizes Emma’s handwriting.

She’s drawn two male faces that he can only assume are supposed to be his own, given the dark hair and eyebrows. One of them is sporting a short beard similar to the one that graces his own chin. The other has a ridiculous growth in the style he has seen far too often in the city for his liking lately. Below these visual treats are some scribbled (obviously in haste) words.

**_Friends don’t let friends grow hipster beards._ **

Rubbing his palm against his admittedly bristly chin, he turns the post-it note over, his grin widening.

**_Rubadub dub, thanks for the grub._ **

He’s not a sentimental person, but all the same, he finds himself tucking the note into the top drawer of his bedside table, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he’s happier at the discovery of this scrap of paper than the prospect of meeting Jane for a drink tonight.

 _It’s just a drink to catch up and bury the hatchet_ , he reminds himself even as he rolls his eyes at his own optimism. _It’s not a date._

He goes in search of his beloved espresso machine, knowing he can only hope that Jane is on the same page. If not, well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

 

~*~

 

Just before midnight on Saturday, Emma strips off her clothes, dumping them on the floor of the hotel bathroom before stepping into the shower stall and setting the hot water to ‘stun’.   She’s freezing, frustrated and furious, in that order.

 _So much for their New York contact’s solid intel,_ she fumes silently. Her mark hadn’t been sighted in any of the six hotels their contact had insisted she’d been using on a rotating basis for the last few weeks. Emma has the sinking feeling that the damned woman has managed to alter her appearance just enough (a change of hair style and wardrobe will only do so much, but the real pros know how to change the way they present and carry themselves so that even their loved ones would pass them on the street), and that’s never good news.

 _She should have let Kathryn give Leroy this job_ , she thinks mutinously as she lets the hot water run over the back of her neck and her shoulders, hoping to ease muscle stiff with inactivity. _Let him sit outside freaking budget hotels for hours with nothing to show for it._

The heat in the Bug had been on the fritz again, and there’s only so much warmth a person can generate by cradling (and drinking) cup after cup of hot coffee. Now she’s over-caffeinated and over-tired and would be handling both things a lot better if she wasn’t so twitchy about everything she’s had to put on hold back home.

Wrapping herself in the hotel-supplied robe, she stretches out on the bed and prepares to dull her senses with a few hours of in-house movies, trying very hard not to look at the mini-bar. She might be getting really tired of loneliness the last thing she remembers feeling before falling asleep every night, but she’s not going to start drinking alone.

Not tonight, anyway. She’ll see how she feels when Monday comes and she’s still stuck traipsing through fleapits of hotels asking night managers to imagine the woman in the photograph with blonde hair instead. Maybe on Monday, she’ll have to resort to the miniature bottles of vodka and whiskey, but until then, she’ll stick with watching Pirates of the Caribbean. Oh, and trying not to think about Killian’s habit of impersonating Jack Sparrow whenever she’s in a bad mood in an attempt to make her laugh. _Savvy, Swan?_

Breathing out a defeated sigh, Emma puts one hand over her eyes. Maybe _one_ tiny bottle of vodka isn’t out of the question.

 

~*~

               

It’s been almost a month since he’s seen her, but Jane is just as attractive as he remembers. Her hazel eyes light up when he arrives at the wine bar, one hand raised in a wave as she rises to her feet. Just a smidge shorter than himself, she merely has to expectantly incline her head an inch or two for him to brush her cheek with his lips.

It’s not quite the tone he’d like to set for the evening, but he likes to think of himself as a gentleman, so he chooses politeness over awkwardness. It is, however, possibly the quickest ‘hello’ kiss he’s ever bestowed on anyone. “Evening, love.”

Her smile is distinctly nervous. “I was starting to think you might have changed your mind.”

He takes a few seconds to absorb her words. He’s dead on time, not even a moment past the hour, and his heart sinks. It appears one of them is taking this ‘just a drink’ catch-up more seriously than the other. “I’m a man of my word, remember?”

“I do remember.” She gives him a sheepish smile of apology. “Speaking of which, I _am s_ orry about the whole camping debacle.”

“No apologies necessary.” He waves a hand towards the interior of the wine bar. “Now, shall we have a drink to celebrate our new truce?”

They find a table and trade industry gossip, both of them seemingly determined to sidestep any lingering awkwardness due to their last meeting. Sadly, his memory has served him well on another point. Jane is pleasant company (and very easy on the eyes, he’s not going to lie), but their conversation is just as lackluster as he remembers. It’s not her fault, nor is it his, it’s just an unfortunate, unavoidable truth.

When they were dating, he’d solved that problem by taking her to bed.   He doesn’t want to go down that path, though, not tonight, even though he suspects she’d be more than agreeable to such a development.

(He has to wonder, though, why he’d suggested this particular bar when he’d called her this morning. It’s only three blocks from his place, which would make any such romantic dalliances extremely convenient.

Old habits die hard, obviously.)

One drink turns into two, and he can literally see her nervousness seeping away. Finally, she stops twisted her fingers together and leans back in her seat. “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Sadly, no.” He hides a smile. Given she’s a highly intelligent fellow solicitor with a reputation for dissecting even the most watertight of prenuptial agreements (they’d met at a networking breakfast), he’s not sure why she’d think he’d bother flying all the way home to London to celebrate an American holiday. “I’m toying with the idea of visiting my brother and his family early in the new year, though.”  

This is news to _him_ (and to Liam, he suspects) but it fills the conversational void nicely. A little too nicely, perhaps, because Jane looks at him over the top of her wine glass in a thoughtful way that he remembers well. “I’ll be in town too.” She gives him a rueful smile. “We’ve finally got a court date for that Anderson matter I told you about.”

He grins. He’s painfully familiar with the spectacularly bad timing often encountered in their particular field of expertise. “Let me guess, it’s the Monday after Thanksgiving?”

“Close.” She sighs. “It’s the Tuesday, so I’ll be working most of the weekend.”   She darts him a hopeful glance, long pale fingers flashing against her dark bob as she tucks her hair behind one ear. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have dinner one night?” Her smile is nervous once again. “No strings attached, just maybe some turkey and candied yams.”

Killian hesitates, and not only due to the mention of the dreaded candied yams. He may be growing weary of his empty social calendar, but he’s not sure this is the wisest course of action. Then again, given that he’s quite certain Emma will be spending most of the holiday weekend in Monkey Boy’s company, the alternative is rattling around an empty apartment. He’s normally a man who’s content with his own company, but lately, he has found his own company to be decidedly lacking.

“Why not?”

An hour later, he kisses her goodnight as they stand outside the wine bar. It’s a soft, slow kiss that lingers longer than he’d planned, and the quietly delighted smile she flashes him when it’s over sends a wave of guilt washing over him.   She says something about calling him before Thursday, then she’s slipping into a taxi, leaving him to brood the short distance to the apartment, his heart at war with his sense of self-preservation, along with a healthy input from his libido.

She’s beautiful and intelligent and he already knows that if they fell back into bed together, the sex would be grand. There’s just one problem, aside from the possibility of once again being asked to go hiking.

She’s not Emma.

~*~

Monday bleeds into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday.   Promising leads turn into dead ends, and her phone conversations with Kathryn are becoming increasingly fraught with frustration. Not with her boss, but with the situation, something the other woman understands. “Stick at it, you know how it works. Keep digging long enough, you’ll run her to ground.”

“If it takes much longer, I’ll be eating Christmas dinner from room service,” Emma grumbles, but Kathryn only laughs.

“In that case, just think of the amazingly generous Christmas bonus your wonderful employer will be giving you this year.”

“Seriously?”

“I never promise anything I don’t deliver.”

Emma grins tiredly into the phone. “Neither do I.”

“That’s my girl. Now get back out there and bring this one home.”

Her phone calls to Walsh haven’t been nearly as productive. They’ve spoken every day, but their conversations have been rushed, and she knows it’s not just her who is distracted. She knows it’s his busiest time of the year, and it’s pretty damned hypocritical of her to feel as though she’s being neglected, given the conversation she’s planning to have with him when she gets back to Boston, but she can’t help the way she feels.

She texts Mary Margaret every night, checking in sometime between scoffing takeout while sitting on her bed and crawling underneath the covers.   Every night, she’s tempted to ask after Killian. Every night, she thinks better of it, and their conversations remain safely Killian-free.

That is, until Wednesday morning, when Mary Margaret calls to wish her a happy Thanksgiving and that they’ll see her on Sunday night when they get home.   “I still hate the thought of you being there all by yourself.”

 _You and me both_ , Emma thinks but doesn’t say. “I’ve got a couple of new leads to go with today,” she assures her friend. “With any luck, I’ll be able to hit the road tomorrow morning and be home in time to reheat a turkey sandwich while it’s still officially Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, Emma, driving in that dreadful holiday traffic? You’ll be stuck for hours.’”

Emma wonders if David and Mary Margaret actually made a pact to fuss over her as though they’re her parents when she moved in, or if just something that comes naturally to them. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

She hears the other woman sigh. “You know, this place hasn’t been the same without you.”

Emma can’t help smiling at that. “Killian not pulling his weight on the conversational front?”

“Very below average, to be honest,” her friend offers in a dry voice.   “Not to mention every time I see him he’s got his head in his laptop, looking at those real estate websites.”

Emma swallows hard, her stomach clenching coldly. “He’s still planning on moving out, then?”

“Seems that way.” The other woman sounds distracted, and Emma knows she’s probably checking the time and thinking about everything she and David have to accomplish before they leave. “Oh, did I tell you he went out with Jane on Saturday night?”

Emma closes her eyes, the lump in her throat seeming to swell to the size of a fist. “No, you didn’t tell me that.”

“I wasn’t surprised. You know how he is.” Mary Margaret’s tone is light and cheerful, and each word is like a skewer in Emma’s heart. “He doesn’t like to be without female company for too long.”

Somehow, Emma manages to wrap up the conversation without making a complete idiot of herself, then earns another gold star by not throwing her phone across the room.   “Fuck.” She digs through her suitcase with the vague notion of finding a clean sweater, her hands not quite steady. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

The worst part is that she knows she’s got no right to be angry, even if she feels as though she wants to punch something very hard. Repeatedly. She should have said something before she left town. She should have written something actually worthwhile on that fucking post-it note instead of wasting five minutes drawing hipster beards.

Her phone rings again, and she snatches it up from where she’d dropped it on the rumpled bed. She barely registers that it’s Walsh calling before she answers it, her heart pounding as she barks out a greeting. “Yes?”

“Uh, hi?” Walsh sounds faintly confused. “Emma?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yep, it’s me. Sorry, just banged my toe.”

“Sweetheart, you sound as though you’re ready to start climbing the walls.”

She’s obviously a terrible person, because the obvious concern in his voice is immediately comforting. “You have no idea.”

“Well, I have _one_ idea that might cheer you up.”

Emma sits on the edge of the bed, her legs stretched out in front of her. “You’ve found my bail skip lurking in your store and you’ve apprehended her for me?”

Walsh laughs. “I wish I could say yes, but all I’m offering is to take you to dinner tomorrow night when you get back into town.”

“Walsh-“

“Come on, we’ll go to that place we had our first date together. It’s Thanksgiving, we should celebrate.”

Emma actually feels her spine stiffen with tension. The conversation she needs to have with Walsh isn’t the type of conversation she wants to have in the middle of a nice restaurant. “I don’t know if I’ll be back by then.”

“Think of it as extra incentive to track down your perp. Is that the right word, perp?”

“It’s one of them, sure.” She runs her hand through her hair, wondering if her life is ever going to stop being complicated. “Okay, yes to dinner, but only on the proviso that I might have to cancel if I’m not done here.”

(She can always cancel, she thinks, even if she _does_ catch up with her embezzling wannabe Hitchcock heroine in time.)

“I’ll be counting the hours. Talk to you soon, sweetheart.”

Emma gets to her feet, suddenly filled with resolve. She can’t do this. She can’t let him keep thinking that everything’s okay when it’s so far from okay that she can hardly stand the guilt of listening to his happy plans. “Walsh, wait. Can we talk for a minute?”

“I gotta go, Em, I’m sorry. I’ve got the West Coast people on the other line. We can talk tomorrow night, okay? Love you.”

Then he’s gone, and if he’d noticed that Emma didn’t say a word about _love_ in return, he didn’t bother mentioning it. She carefully puts her phone on the bed, then digs a clean sweater and underwear out of her suitcase.   Her real life is happening without her in another city, and if she doesn’t get back there soon, there might be some things she’s too late to fix.

(She’s not talking about Walsh.)

As she dresses, she fires up her laptop, skimming through her skip’s file and poring over her photographs one more time. There’s a brittle energy surging through her, a renewed sense of urgency scratching at her skin. As she pulls on her boots, she gives one of the 8 x 10 headshots of her target a grim smile.   “So, you want to play hide and seek?”   She zips up one boot, then the other, then slips her phone into her back pocket. “Lady, you have _no_ idea what I’m capable of.”

 

~*~

 

His busy caseload is a blessing in disguise.   After his drink with Jane, the next few days pass quickly enough, despite the odd feeling of being caught in limbo, waiting for something he can’t quite name.

At least with Emma out of town, he doesn’t have to worry about any awkward late night encounters in the hallway, or feel as though he needs to be ‘on’ every time he walks through his own front door. If he didn’t miss her so much, he’d welcome the break from the strange tension that’s been brewing between them.  

But he does miss her. He misses the way she hogs their shared bathroom, the way she hums obscure indie pop songs and an hour later he finds himself humming the same damned song on his way to work.   He misses the smell of her perfume trailing behind her as she races at the door, late as usual. He misses the sound of her voice and the warmth of her smile and the way his pulse would start to race whenever she came into the room.

There are not enough court documents in the legal system to make him forget how much he misses her.

Before he knows it, it’s Wednesday morning, and both his remaining housemates have the day off and are making last minute preparations for their road trip to visit both their mothers in turn. David’s just taken the last of the luggage down to his truck when Killian looks at his watch with a frown. “Well, I must head off. Not all of us have the luxury of lazing around today, sadly. You and Dave have a good time.” He ruffles Mary Margaret’s dark hair, and is rewarded with her customary glare. Her smile ruins the effect, though, as does the kiss she presses on his cheek.

“Please don’t tell me that you’re going to work all weekend.”

“Some of it, but never fear, milady, I plan to schedule a decent amount of sloth and gluttony as well.”

She gives him a knowing smile. “Are you seeing Jane again?”

He hesitates. The path taken by the conduit of information in this apartment is firmly entrenched, and he suspects anything he tells Mary Margaret on this particular subject will filter through to Emma. Which, he muses, might not necessarily be a bad thing. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, and all that nonsense. “We might have dinner tomorrow night.”

His friend’s green eyes widen. “Having Thanksgiving dinner together? That sounds serious.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“Seriously?” Mary Margaret shakes her head at him. “I remember how Jane used to look at you whenever the two of you were here. Trust me, it’s not just dinner.”

 _Well, that’s just wonderful._ He smiles at her, leaning heavily towards diplomacy instead of the verbal route he’d truly like to take. “We’ll see.”  

A moment later, he meets David outside their building, dusting his hands after loading the luggage. “Are you sure you’re only going for five days, mate?” Killian eyes the backseat of David’s truck through the window. “At least you’ll be prepared if you get snowed in.”

“You know, I used to be able to travel light,” David shoots back, smiling. “Then I met Mary Margaret.”  

Killian laughs as he claps the other man on the shoulder. “I’m off to work. Hope you survive the almost-mother-in-law.”

David’s grin is a sly one. “And I hope _you_ pull your head out of your ass and talk to Emma when she gets back from New York.”

Killian hooks his satchel over his shoulder. “Sod off,” he tells his friend pleasantly, but David’s grin only widens.

“Right back at you, _mate._ ”

 

~*~

 

Wednesday proves to be another frustrating day, but Emma is determined not to give up. She’s close, she can feel it. She is not leaving this city without this capture. Not even if she has to stay here another week. This job is the last hoop she has to jump through before she can go home and reclaim her life, and she is damned well going to find this woman.

Thursday is, of course, Thanksgiving Day, and while there might be a festive note in the air, Emma is tired and irritable and in desperate need of a good night’s sleep in her own bed.   Then, just after midday, in the most unlikely of places, the miracle happens.

In the middle of a near-empty convenience store two doors down from one of the cheap hotels on Emma’s list, she finally runs her prey to ground.

Emma’s heartbeat quickens, but her hands are steady as she pats the cuffs beneath her jacket. She takes a deep breath, then casually saunters to stand at the woman’s shoulder. “Wow, those look good.” She smiles at the box of donuts the tall, red-haired woman has just placed on the counter. “I haven’t tried those salted caramel ones before.”

The woman hesitates, her dark eyes narrowing as she scans Emma’s face. “They’re not bad,” she finally ventures with obvious reluctance, and Emma smiles. That expertly done auburn dye job might have cost a bomb, but the drawling voice with its New Jersey accent is an exact match for the telephone recordings included in Kathryn’s file.

“Kara Tait?” The other woman’s eyes widen, her nostrils flaring, and Emma quickly steps to one side, blocking her exit from the store. “Hi. I work for Midas Bonds, and we’d like to make sure you get your day in court.”

The string of profanities that follows makes Emma glad that the store is mostly empty. The usual pointless tussle follows, but Emma doesn’t have to break too much of a sweat before it’s over. Unlike Felix Piper, Kara Tait doesn’t put up much of a fight.

“Just between you and me,” Emma muses aloud as she clicks the cuffs into place around the other woman’s clammy wrists, “I think the red hair suits you.”

Kara Tait, aka Carly Thomas, aka Karen Taylor is clearly not in the mood to discuss hair care. She is sullen and silent, and Emma isn’t all that disappointed her jibe doesn’t spark a lively conversation.   This woman is definitely not the charming fraudster type. She’s a thief who was already financially secure before she ruined a man’s livelihood simply because she _could_ , and Emma can’t think of a better Thanksgiving gift for her former employer than to have her behind bars.

The callous bitch has blown two hundred thousand bucks of someone else’s money on worthless junk, and the fact that Emma made her during a lunchtime donut buying expedition to a 7-11 only adds to the feeling of a job well done.  

(She’d even managed to buy a couple of salted caramel donuts for the road.)

Two hours later, Emma is in her car and heading back towards Boston, exhausted but elated. She’s already spoken to Kathryn twice, and been told in no uncertain terms not to show her face at the office until Monday morning. The holiday weekend stretches out ahead of her, shimmering like a freaking oasis in the desert.

First, though, she has to see Walsh.

She really doesn’t want to go to dinner at ‘their’ restaurant, but putting it off will only delay the inevitable, and even if she’s left alone and miserable after it’s done, at least she won’t be living a lie. Knowing that Mary Margaret had had a point about the holiday traffic, Emma had showered at the hotel before checking out, taking the time to do her make up and put together an outfit that didn’t involve jeans and her red jacket. Okay, so she’s still wearing her red jacket, but at least now she’s wearing it over a short black and white dress, her legs blissfully warm in black tights and boots.

It’s almost seven by the time she reaches Boston, and her latest text exchange with Walsh tells her that he’d booked a table for seven. Thanks to her prep in the hotel room, all she has to do is find a parking space, fluff out her hair and reapply her lip gloss.   She doesn’t know if it’s weird to be worried about looking okay when you’re planning to break up with your date – she’s never been in this situation before – but tonight, she feels as though she needs the emotional armor.

Walsh is waiting for her inside, and to her dismay she realises he’s sitting at the same table they’d had on their first date. “Sorry I’m late.” He’s beside her and kissing her cheek before she has the chance to catch her breath, and it’s a relief to sit down, her legs suddenly feeling wobbly after the long drive. “That holiday traffic is brutal.”

He smiles. “But you’re here, so I guess that means you caught the guy.”

He looks so pleased to see her, she almost feels her determination wavering. Almost. “So optimistic.”  

Still smiling, he just shrugs, handing her a menu. “If you hadn’t, you’d have cancelled.”

She had almost cancelled anyway, but he doesn’t need to know that. “You know me too well.”

“Emma Swan always gets her man.” He waves his hand, and a waiter materializes out of nowhere to place a glass of red wine in front of her.

“Woman, actually”, she corrects automatically, then smiles at the waiter, because it’s not his fault she isn’t planning on drinking anything tonight. “Thank you.”

Walsh and the waiter launch into an animated discussion about the daily specials and the holiday menu. Emma sips her iced water, ignoring the wine glass. Not only does she want a clear head for what’s to come, she’s been driving for hours. She’s too tired to chance even half a glass of wine tonight.

“Are you hungry?”

She’s too tightly wound to sugar coat the truth. “Starving.”

Both men smile, then go right back to discussing appetizers and entrees. Emma looks around the restaurant, letting herself zone the conversation out, telling herself that she’ll wait until they’ve had dinner. Maybe she can convince Walsh to take a walk, or go somewhere quiet for coffee. She’s personally experienced being told she’s no longer wanted in a public place way too many times to inflict the same embarrassment on someone else.

They eat. No turkey appears, which is kind of disappointing, but it’s all lovely and she _is_ starving and it’s nice to sit at a real table with a white linen tablecloth and eat real food, instead of propped up on pillows, eating a burger.

“Something wrong with your wine?”

She quickly reassures him that the wine is fine, knowing he’s likely to send it back to the sommelier if he thinks she’s not enjoying it. “I’m just a little tired, I guess.”

Reaching across the table, he pats her hand reassuringly, but every brush of his fingers against her skin makes her feel worse. “I’m not surprised.”

Somehow, she manages to get through dinner. As they eat, he asks about the job she’s just finished, then tells her about the preparations in his store for the following day. He’s talkative tonight “It’s why I booked a table earlier than we usually eat. I was hoping maybe we could have an early night,” he adds as the waiter clears away their plates.

The unspoken question in his eyes makes Emma’s heart lurch. She can’t go back to his place. She can’t sleep with him. She has to fix this, and she has to do it now. “Hey, do you think we could go somewhere quiet for coffee?”

“Not before we’ve had dessert, surely?” He grins at her as he gestures at their attentively hovering waiter. “Hope you’re still hungry.”

Emma stares at the ornate ice cream sundae the waiter places in front of her with a flourish, and thinks she can actually hear her stomach groan. “Walsh, I couldn’t eat another bite.”

He pulls his chair around the table until he’s sitting beside her. “You remember our first date?” He ducks his head, trying to catch her eye. “You were being _you,_ so I couldn’t swing a dinner.”

“Well, I _had_ just hauled off one of your employees to face the music over flashing her boobs on the subway.” Despite the unease tugging at her, she smiles at the memory of the colorful language that had filled the air that day, and not all of it from her capture. “You could have been hell-bent on revenge for all I knew. I thought a daytime date would be the safest bet.”

“I brought you here for lunch, which didn’t stop you from ordering an ice-cream sundae, which wasn’t on the menu.” He tilts his head towards the kitchen, his dark eyes soft with nostalgia. “I bribed the chef. They made one up.”

“I remember.” Not that it matters now, but she can’t resist the urge to defend her first-date self. “I was nervous, and you know how I get about ice cream when I’m nervous.” He snorts softly, his smile never fading as he pushes the plate towards her. “Walsh, I’m _full_ , seriously.”

He turns the plate around until the elaborate pattern of drizzled sauce is closer to her. “Will you at least _look_ at it?”

She looks.

_Oh, God._

There’s a diamond solitaire sitting in the middle of a swirl of chocolate Grenache.

_No, no. no._

“Emma, I don’t want to freak you out, but I love you. I know we’ve had our ups and downs lately, but we’re _good_ together.” His dark eyes search her face, his hands tightening around hers. Her palms are cold, and she wonders dully if he’s noticed. “I want to have a future together. You, me, maybe kids someday, if that’s what you want.”

Frozen with disbelief and a growing feeling panic, she watches as he slides off his chair and onto one knee beside her. Her face is on fire, which doesn’t make sense, because her insides have literally turned to ice. She knows exactly what he’s going to say, but it’s still a shock to see his lips form the words.

“Emma Swan, will you marry me?”

 

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this particular chapter sketched out and partially written since I first started this story. Now that I’ve joined all the dots and fleshed it out, I’m suffering last minute ‘chapter panic’ in no uncertain terms. Have at it. P.S. This chapter contains some more Walsh and Jane and angst and all that kind of thing. Sorry.

~*~

He may not have grown up celebrating the holiday in question, but Killian can’t deny there are several aspects of Thanksgiving that he does enjoy _._ Apart from the annual ritual of sharing football and buffalo wings with David in the lead-up to the holiday itself, the chance to acquire even more electronic gadgets he doesn’t need at ludicrously discounted prices is always welcome.  Of course, then there is the startling variety of foodstuffs that makes their annual (and welcome) reappearance each November.  

 _Apart from the candied yams, of course,_ he muses with an inward shudder. He’s never seen the sense in taking a perfectly decent root vegetable and covering it with marshmallow, and he doubts even another ten years of exposure to this bizarre practice will induce him to change his mind.  He has no doubt that David and Mary Margaret are currently dining on any number of such dishes, along with a healthy dose of motherly fussing.  As for Emma –

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he rereads the text message he’d received from Mary Margaret earlier in the day.

_Made it in one piece! Hope you and Emma haven’t trashed the place yet. The weather bureau is predicting rain for the weekend there but in case it doesn’t can you please water all my potted plants on the roof? Also Emma is having dinner with Walsh tonight if she gets back from NYC in time so probably won’t be home until tomorrow.  Hope your non-date (ha!) goes well. Happy T’giving!_

From Emma herself, he’s heard nothing all week. Not a single text message or email, indeed nothing since she’d left him that ridiculous (and adorable) note before she’d left town.  

Happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

Propped up at the bar, nursing an imported beer, he mindlessly crunches his way through a bowl of salted cashews, wondering if it’s too late for him to slip out before Jane arrives.  Not that he would do any such thing, of course.  No matter how much a man might be thinking that he’s made an error in judgment, it is bad form to renege on an arrangement with a lady.

Sipping his beer, he scans the main dining area once more.  Alas, his first impression remains unchanged. Again, the venue isn’t far from his apartment, but this time it had been of Jane’s choosing.  When he’d arrived, it had been impossible to ignore the ambient lighting and unobtrusively romantic music playing in the background. This was not a family restaurant by any stretch of the imagination, and as he again glances at the many couples enjoying an intimate holiday meal, he makes a silent vow never to let Mary Margaret Blanchard know just how painfully accurate her prediction had been.  

_Trust me, it’s not just dinner._

A delicate situation, that’s for certain, and one he’ll have to handle with care and diplomacy. Just as he makes this mental note, he sees Jane being ushered in his direction by the hostess. Leaving his beer half-finished, he gets to his feet and goes to greet her, brushing her cheek with a fleeting kiss, doing his best to hide his consternation. She may have been working all day, but right now she’s dressed for a date, not for the office.  She makes a charming picture in her pale blue dress, her dark bobbed hair swinging in a perfectly styled sweep as she turns to smile at him, confirming his suspicions that they’ve approached this evening from two very different directions.

“You look lovely.”

“Thanks.” She blushes, but he doesn’t regret the compliment. He might not be interested in rekindling their relationship, but she _does_ look lovely.  She smiles at him over her shoulder as they’re led to their table. “I like the new vest.”

“Thank you.” It’s not a new vest, just one that she didn’t see during their brief relationship, but he feels pointing that fact out might imply he didn’t rate this evening worthy of purchasing a new item of clothing.  Then again, perhaps he _should_ mention it.

Then _again,_ he thinks as he smiles at Jane across the table,perhaps he should have listened to Mary Margaret in the first place.

The main topics of conversation over dinner are the case on which Jane’s currently working and the food, both of them harmless and devoid of any undercurrents of intimacy.   Her clients are both wealthy and hyperbolic, always a demanding combination, and they spend a pleasant hour or so swapping stories from the trenches of the family law courts.  Finally, as their empty plates are cleared, Jane looks him in the eye, her dark gaze steady.

“If I ask you something, will you be completely honest with me?”

 _Never a promising start to any conversation_ , he thinks, but he has nothing to lose here. “Of course.”

She wrinkles her nose as she gestures between them. “You’re not feeling this, are you?”

He looks at her, startled, the truth tumbling from his lips in the face of such a frank statement.  “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” she tells him, her gaze flicking sideways, then back to his face. “You’ve always been straight with me about how you felt.”  She shakes her head as she reaches for her wine glass, her tone flat.  “I’m the one who suggested we catch up to smooth things over, after all.”

He feels the tension knotting his shoulders ease, the festive meal he’s just finished no longer feeling as though it’s lodged under his ribs. “Which we have, I hope?”

“Can’t ask for more than that,” she tells him, then gives him a rueful smile.  “Well, I could, but there’s no point, is there?”

“I’m sorry, love, it’s just-” He breaks off, because standing up a dinner date might be bad form, but speaking of another woman whilst in her company is even worse.  To his dismay, however, she’s already giving him an uncomfortably shrewd look as the waiter hands them the dessert menus.

“I hope she appreciates you.”

Once again she’s taken him by surprise, and once again he’s completely honest with her. “The jury’s still out on that one, I’m afraid.”

“I think I’ll pass on dessert,” she says a moment later, blowing out a sigh as she scans the menu.  “What about you?”

“I couldn’t manage a thing.” He hasn’t even bothered looking at the list of desserts on offer.  He’s not in the mood for slipping into a food coma this evening.   “Perhaps just coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

He looks at her, and makes a sudden decision. Now that they know exactly where they stand with each other, surely there’s no reason not to be sociable.  “Did you drive this evening?”

“No, I caught a taxi from the office. My car’s at home.”

He tilts his head towards the outside world. “Why don’t you let me make you an espresso at my place, then I’ll drop you home?”

She sighs.  “Two hours ago, I would have been jumping for joy to get that invitation.”

The pang of guilt he feels is only to be expected, but it doesn’t make it any more pleasant. “And now?”

Jane’s smile is a little sharp around the edges, but there’s no resentment in her dark eyes. “Now I’m thinking I can get back that book I loaned you while scoring a free espresso and a ride home.”

Killian grins, relieved he hasn’t made an enemy this evening. “In that case, your carriage and caffeine await.”

~*~

Walsh’s words might be ringing in her ears, but she still can’t believe he actually said them.  “I, uh-” Her stomach is churning as heat crawls along her skin, rising up from her chest to her throat, making her feel as though she can’t swallow, can’t speak properly.  “I’m sorry, I need a moment,” she finally manages to choke out as she picks up her handbag, then pushes back her chair with an almost violent shove.  She doesn’t look at Walsh.  

As soon as she’s on her feet, Emma does something she hasn’t done for a while.

She runs.

The cold night air seems to burn her overheated face as soon as she reaches the outside world, and it’s like having a bucket of water dumped over her head.   _What the fuck is she doing? Running out on Walsh, leaving him alone at their table with a freaking diamond ring swimming in chocolate syrup?_

She stops, feeling the heels of her boots bite into the cement of the sidewalk, then she hears the sound of footsteps behind her.  

“I thought the worst thing that could happen was you’d say _no,_ but I never thought you’d walk out on the bill.”

She closes her eyes, inhaling another lungful of cold air, then turns to face him. “Walsh-”

He’s standing a few feet from her, as if he doesn’t want to spook her by coming any closer. “No, no, no. I was gonna pay.” His dark gaze searches her face as he holds his hands up in surrender, and she realises he’s holding her leather jacket. “Are you alright?”

She presses the heel of her palm against the centre of her chest, feeling as though she’s just run fifteen miles instead of fifteen feet.  “I’m sorry, this wasn’t-” She stops, knowing there’s no way for her to say what she needs to say without hurting him. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all.”   _That might just be the understatement of the century_ , she thinks. “A _lot_ of things are taking me by surprise lately.”

Then again, maybe she’s not finished with the understatements.      

Walsh finally closes the gap between them, draping her jacket around her shoulders, his hands then curling around her elbows. “Look, surprise was kind of part of the plan but I can see now it was _not_ a great plan.”

The subtle scent of his aftershave wafts around them, achingly familiar. She remembers when the lingering smell of it on one of her shirts or bath towels would give her butterflies.  “I’m not a big fan of surprises.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”  His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and she can feel the tension in the hands cupping her elbows.  “It’s just, well, it dawned on me recently that maybe the reason you didn’t want to move in with me is because you needed something more from me.”   Just as he had at the table, he ducks his head, trying to catch her gaze.  “Something more permanent.”

Emma frowns, the carefully prepared speech she’d practiced on the four hour drive from New York City pushed aside by Walsh’s words.  “Wait, what are you saying?”  She gently shakes off his touch, her eyes still locked with his.  “That you asked me to _marry you_ as a way to convince me to move into your apartment?”

She hears her voice hardening with each new word, and his eyes widen in what looks a lot like panic. “No, no.  I love you and I want to spend my life with you.” His hand reaches for hers, and she lets him take it, her thoughts bubbling like a freaking witch’s cauldron. “You don’t want to live in a share house forever, do you?”

She stares at him. “They’re my best friends.”

“But Ems, you’re almost thirty.”

Beneath her confusion, a flicker of anger flares into life. “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“Look, I understand that you’re trying to recreate the family home you never had with these people. I get it.” His tone is gentle, but it still grates on her like fingernails on a blackboard, because he _doesn’t_ get it.  “But sweetheart, in the end, we both know that it’s not going to last.”

The flicker of anger begins to glow more brightly, burning away her indecision, and she tugs her hand out of his grasp.  “What do you mean?”

“You know as well as I do that David and Mary Margaret are the married-with-kids type, and Jones isn’t the kind of guy who’ll want to stick around and babysit you once those two set up house on their own.”  

Curling her hands around the edges of her jacket, she pulls it tighter around herself.  “I don’t _need_ babysitting.”

“Look, I’m saying everything all wrong.”

To his credit, he couldn’t sound more apologetic, but it’s too late.  It was too late before she’d even arrived at the restaurant, she thinks unhappily.

“Okay, here’s the bottom line. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”  For a horrible instant, she thinks he might be about to go down on one knee all over again. “I could give you a real home, Emma, the kind you’ve always wanted. What do you say?”

She looks at him, hating herself for what she’s about to do, knowing she’ll hate herself even more if she doesn’t. __ “I can’t.”

He frowns, running his hand through his dark hair. “You can’t because it’s too soon, or you can’t because you need some time to think about things, or-”

Reaching out, she touches him for the first time tonight, curling her arms around his forearms. “I’m so sorry, Walsh.”  She _is_ sorry, more sorry than she can ever tell him, but he deserves better.  He deserves someone who can love him unreservedly, with their whole heart.  Not having a happy ending might be painful now, but giving someone unrealistic hope is far worse, and she won’t do that to him. “For a long time, I really thought this was what I wanted, but it’s not.”

His dark eyebrows draw together in a heavy frown. “What’s _not_ , exactly?”

He’s going to make her spell it out for him, she realises, and she takes a deep breath. “This. Us. You and me.”  

He steps back, and her hands fall empty to her sides. “Are you serious right now?”

“I am.” Her voice catches on those two little words, harsh in her throat. “I’m so sorry, Walsh.”  

He looks as though she’s just told him the world is coming to an end. “Tell me what’s wrong.”  He steps to her side again, his eyes locking with hers.  “If it’s something I’m doing or saying that’s making you want to end things, please tell me.  I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“You can’t fix it.” Her eyes blur hotly, and she would give almost anything to not be the one hurting him right now, but she can’t go back.  “I know this is the worst cliché, but it’s not you.  This is about me and how I feel, and I don’t _feel_ enough to marry you. I’m _so_ sorry, but that’s not going to change.”  

“So that’s it.”  He looks at her, his expression tight, his dark eyes glittering. “It’s over?”

She nods, again offering the only words she can, even though she knows they’ll be of little comfort to him. “I’m so sorry.”

Looking dazed, he runs both hands through his hair.  “So am I.”  

Turning on his heel, he walks back into the restaurant, leaving her alone in the cold evening air.  Emma waits until he vanishes from her view, then she puts one booted foot in the direction of her car, then the other.  She’s done the right thing, she knows that, but right now she feels as though she’s just ripped out Walsh’s heart and ground it into dust beneath her heel.

Her eyes are stinging with tears she’s determined not to shed and she feels like the shittiest person in the world, but the crippling weight of _dread_ she’s been carrying around with her for days lightens with every new step she takes.

She drives home carefully, conscious of her scattered headspace and her lack of sleep, the street lights blurring more than once as she finds herself tearing up over losing yet another person from her life.  It doesn’t matter that she was the one who flipped the switch on the trapdoor, it still hurts.  Every time she thinks of the shock etched on Walsh’s face, her chest tightens, and she finds herself gripping the steering wheel a little harder.

Halfway home, she suddenly feels as though she can’t breathe.  She pulls over to the side of the road as soon as it’s safe turning off the engine with an unsteady hand.  The sudden silence wraps itself around her like a shroud, then she’s crying, gulping back sobs, the tears hot on her cheeks.  

She cries for Walsh and the loss of what they could have had, and for the hurt she’s caused his heart tonight. She cries for herself, for the parents who didn’t want her and never came looking for her, leaving her with scars so deep sometimes she’s afraid she’ll never be able to climb out of them. She cries for wasted moments and missed chances and stupid decisions, all the things she’s shoved down into the darkest corners of herself, as if pretending they never happened would make it true.

When it’s over, she feels drained but weirdly calm.  Apparently she’d been long overdue for a violent crying fit.   _Go figure_.  Unearthing a battered packet of tissues from her purse, she dabs her eyes and blows her nose.  She feels like she’s been parked on the side of the road for an eternity but, to her surprise, only fifteen minutes has passed.  Before she starts the car, she checks her phone, relieved to see she has no missed calls or text messages from Walsh.  She’s pretty sure he’s more than a little angry with her right now, and she’d rather have a good night’s sleep (in her own bed, a very important detail after almost a week living in a hotel room) under her belt before she hears from him again.

By the time she turns into her street, though, she feels as though she’s taking the last steps of a long, stupidly hazardous journey.  She finds a parking space not far from the apartment, but she’d happily drag her suitcase ten blocks if she had to.  Maybe she’s just a callous bitch at heart, but she feels as though she can breathe properly for the first time in what seems like months.

Killian’s car is in the apartment parking space.  She stops in her tracks, butterflies lurching through her belly at the sight of his ridiculous gas guzzler.  Her head had been so full of what she’d needed to say to Walsh that she hadn’t really thought about the rest of the evening, or even considered the full implications of David and Mary Margaret’s departure to visit their mothers. Now, seeing his car, she realises that she’d been hoping he wasn’t home, just to give her some breathing space after seeing Walsh.  

It seems the universe has other ideas, though, and she can’t remember the last time she felt so nervous.  

The lift to the fourth floor seems to take forever, but finally she’s putting her key into the front door.  She smiles at the music coming from the living room as soon as she steps into the hallway - nineties Manchester? really? - then ditches her suitcase just inside the front door.  She runs her hands through her hair (she’s sure it looks fine, which is more than she can probably say for her eye make-up) and takes a deep breath as she walks down the hallway.  “Anyone home?”  

Rounding the corner into the living room, she finds Killian standing in the middle of the room, shrugging into his favourite leather jacket.   His eyes widen at the sight of her, his lips parting long before he says her name in an oddly strangled voice.  “Swan. I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”

 _Mary Margaret strikes again,_ she thinks with a smile. “I know, but I’m so glad you’re here.”  She dumps her purse onto the couch, not giving a damn that she’s left it unzipped and half a dozen of her personal belongings have spilled out onto the cushions.  “I _really_ need to talk to you-“

He gives her a despairing look that she doesn’t understand, the tips of his ears turning pink, then he waves his hand in the direction of the woman who is walking out of his bedroom, a paperback novel in her hand.  “Emma, you remember Jane.”

The other woman is fully dressed, shoes included, but the fact she’s just casually strolled out of Killian’s bedroom makes Emma feels as though she’s been punched in the stomach.  To add insult to injury, Jane gives her a wave. “Hey, Emma. Nice to see you again.”  

Maybe Emma should be worried that her smile looks as fake as it feels, but right now, she doesn’t give a shit. “You too.”

Killian’s gaze burns into hers for another few seconds, then he turns to Jane, his mouth curling in an easy smile. “I take it you found your book?”

“Yes, right on the top shelf, just where you said it would be.” The dark-haired woman smiles back at him, and Emma has never felt more like a third wheel in her life.

“Excuse me, would you?” Her voice sounds as though it’s coming from a distance. “It’s been a long drive.”

She flees to the kitchen.  She doesn’t know why.  Maybe her subconscious pushes her in the direction of the room with sharp implements and boiling water.   All she knows is that she’s too late and she’s only got herself to blame.

She’s just pulling a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator when she hears his footsteps coming down the hallway towards the kitchen.   Keeping her back to the doorway, she moves to grab a wine glass (just one, she has no intention of being sociable), vaguely disappointed that the bottle is a screw top and there’s no need for her to gouge anything with the corkscrew.  

“You alright, Swan?”

She closes her eyes at the concern in his voice.  God, she hates this, hates that he has the power to make her feel so unnecessary and then so cherished in the space of two fucking minutes.  

_I hate you sometimes._

And there’s that stupid sound bite in her head again, she fumes in silent despair. She pours herself a glass of wine, then clunks the bottle onto the counter top before turning around to face him.  She hasn’t seen him for almost a week, and just looking at him makes her whole body ache with a hollow longing that has her gripping her glass tightly, almost white-knuckled.  “So.” She takes a sip of wine, watching him frown as he watches _her._ “You and Jane.”

She says the words softly, but there’s no disguising the accusation in them.  She doesn’t care.

He hesitates for a few seconds, then lifts his chin, hooking his thumbs into his leather belt as his shoulders straighten, his bright blue gaze snapping into hers.  “Perhaps.”

There’s a world of challenge in that one little word, and she’s suddenly furious, both with him and herself. “I thought you said that the two of you were a bad fit.”

“What can I say?”  He leans one hip against the kitchen counter, ankles casually crossed. “Sometimes you just need a little distance to gain a new perspective.”  

The wine tastes like vinegar on her tongue, but that doesn’t stop her from taking another gulp. “I guess that just goes to show some people never change.”

His gaze narrows, his casual stance vanishing as he straightens. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

She feels the corners of her mouth turn downwards, like that of a sulking child, but she’s not in the mood to impress anyone tonight, least of all him. “Nothing.”

He studies her carefully, then takes two steps towards her, which is two steps too many as far as she’s concerned. “How was dinner with Walsh?”

“Interesting.”  She doesn’t bother asking how he knows where she was tonight. Mary Margaret has long been the hub of information in their little group. “He asked me to marry him.”

He stares at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.  He looks as though she’s stuck a knife between his ribs, which makes no fucking sense, considering his _date_ is sitting in the other room.  “And what was your answer?”

His harsh whisper is just as much of an accusation as hers had been earlier, and it brings out the worst in her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He smiles at the childish jibe, but the blue light in his eyes stays cool. “Perhaps I would.”

_I hate you sometimes._

Glaring at him, she gestures towards the living room with her wine glass in her right hand, keeping her left by her side, hidden from his view.  “You should go. Your date will be wondering where you are.”

He closes the gap between them in two quick strides, and she’s suddenly very aware that the kitchen counter is pressing into the small of her back, leaving her nowhere to go. “Always got my best interests at heart, haven’t you, Swan?”

Sarcasm drips from his every quietly spoken word, but she’s more than up for the challenge of returning fire. “Excuse me?”

Another smile, and this time it makes her stomach flip over. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re almost as invested in  _my_  personal life as you are your own.”

Her face is hot, her pulse humming in her ears, but she’s not going to run away. “Why am I not surprised you’re making this all about you?”

He waggles an admonishing finger in her face, almost brushing the tip of her nose. “Oh, Swan. I didn’t have to lift a finger to make it about me, not when you’re so determined to do it for me.”

 _Oh, God._ Her heart is jumping like a fucking jackrabbit against her ribs. “What exactly are you implying?”

“I think there’s a reason why you keep saying _no_ to Walsh’s pleas for you to share his home, in spite of your constant claims of being happy with him.”

She clamps her lips together in a tight line, deciding she is not going to tell him what happened between her and Walsh tonight. He doesn’t deserve her honesty right now. “And what’s that?”

His eyes lock with hers, and although there’s still a clear foot of space between them, she can feel the almost tangible pull towards him. “You’re afraid.”

She glares at him, because it’s easier to be angry than to admit he might be right. “Excuse me?”

Reaching out, he takes the wine glass from her hand and puts it on the counter top.  He doesn’t touch her, though, and she tells herself she’s relieved. “You’re afraid that if you let him go, you’ll be alone again, just like you were when you were younger and the people you loved were stupid enough to leave you behind.”

Her throat feels thick and tight.  Even if she could find the right words, she’s not sure she could actually speak.  

When she says nothing, he goes on, dropping his voice even lower. “You’d rather stay with Walsh and be unhappy for the rest of your life instead of being brave enough to see if there’s another happy ending out there for you.”

His harshly whispered accusation shocks her into speech, and the words tumble from her mouth without thought.  “Let me guess. With _you_?”  

Her words hang in the air between them as they stare at each other. Finally, he shrugs, the tiny muscle in his jaw jumping as he bites out his answer. “Perhaps.”  He takes a step backwards, his eyes never leaving hers. “But I guess we’ll never know, will we?”  

 _Oh, God._ This conversation has become a fucking train wreck, and she feels like she’s frozen on the spot, powerless to stop it from unfolding. As if in a dream, she lifts her hand to touch his arm, but he’s already moving away.  “I need to take Jane home.”

Panic claws at her. “Killian, wait.”

His shoulders slump, then he half-turns, shaking his head as he glances at her. “To use one of your favourite turns of phrase, Swan, save your breath.”  He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking very tired. “I’m not in the mood.”

She stares down at the toes of her boots, listening to his rapidly disappearing footsteps.  Through a fog of anger and regret, she hears the faintest murmur of conversation, then the sound of the front door slamming.

She’s alone.

Walking slowly to the nearest kitchen chair, Emma sits, puts her head in her hands and, the second time in as many hours, lets herself cry for what she’s lost.

~*~

“So.” Jane clears her throat lightly. “Emma.”

Killian tightens his grip on the steering wheel.  They’ve been driving for ten minutes, and while the conversation has been stilted, Jane’s choice of subject change is not a welcome one, not when Emma’s words are still ringing in his ears.  

_Walsh asked me to marry him._

“What about her?”

“She’s the woman you’re not sure of, isn’t she?”

 _Bloody hell._ Startled, he almost misses the exit he needs to take to get to Jane’s apartment, and he grits his teeth on a few choice words. “Sorry?”

“While I’m painfully aware I don’t always remember to apply the skill to my personal life, I read people for a living, Killian.  It was pretty obvious to me that some strong emotions were involved back there.”

By his reckoning, they should reach her apartment in just under fifteen minutes.  He suspects those fifteen minutes are going to take an eternity.  “I know you mean well, love, but I’d rather not talk about it.”  

“You know, I think I’ve just remembered why we stopped seeing each other,” she mutters in a short, sharp tone. “Look, I’ve put aside my own feelings regarding the situation and offered to be a sounding board for you. You can ignore the offer or you can vent your spleen at me for the next ten minutes.  We’ll never discuss it again, after all.”

He stares at the road ahead for a long moment, warring with himself, torn between wanting to keep his grief hidden and the very real need to say her name.  “Emma’s boyfriend proposed to her this evening.”  

“I see.”  Unsurprisingly, Jane sounds as though she’s taking his official statement.  “And this affects you because-?”

“I’m not in the habit of waxing lyrical about a woman when I’m in another’s company, love.”

He hears her sigh. “Clock’s ticking, Killian.”

“Fine.”  If she wants him to speak his mind, then so be it.  “It’s always been her, since the first day we met at college.”  As it had when he’d spoken with David on Friday evening, the simply act of saying the words out loud sends a visceral jolt of pain rattling through him. “Unfortunately, she’s never shared the same sentiment.”

They’ve reached Jane’s neighbourhood now, and he has the sense of time slipping through his fingers.  “I take it you’ve never told her.”

“There’s never been a time when we’ve both been unattached _and_ in the same city.”  He glances at her, but her expression is unreadable.  “And being able to call her my friend is something I have always highly valued.”

As they turn into her street, Jane reaches down to where her purse is tucked next to her feet, placing it carefully on her lap.  “Two things.”   He pulls up in front of her apartment block, keeping the engine running as he looks at her. “You’re usually a very observant man, so I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you Emma had obviously been crying before she’d arrived home.”

He stares at her, frantically trying to recall the finer details of the dreadful conversation he’d had with Emma in the kitchen.  He’d been so bloody intent on scoring points, first with Jane’s presence and then pushing her about Walsh, that he hadn’t attributed her reddened eyes to anything more dramatic than her occasional allergies.  “What’s the second thing?” he hears himself ask, and Jane gives him a frankly pitying look.

“If she’d said yes, don’t you think she’d still be with him, celebrating such a momentous occasion instead of coming home to speak to _you_?”

Killian closes his eyes, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. “You make a very good case.” He has been a fool of the first water, letting his bruised pride and his sodding ego rule his head, and he may have just irrevocably damaged his friendship with the one person he can’t bear to lose.  “It appears your professional reputation is more than justified.”  

“It certainly is.” Leaning across, she presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek, then opens the passenger door before he can even think about being a gentleman and escorting her to her door. “And maybe one day I’ll learn to take my own advice.”  Standing beside his car, she gives him one last smile. “See you in the trenches, Jones.”

With that, she slams the passenger door shut, and Killian shakes his head at the irony of it all. That was the most honest conversation they’ve ever had, and it was about his feelings for another woman.  

Speaking of that other woman –

He performs a swift U-turn, ignoring the blaring horn of the disgruntled driver behind him.  It’s been a long time since he couched his thoughts in the nautical language he and Liam had used _ad nauseam_ as small children growing up near the seaside, but right now he feels as though he has the wind in his sails, slicing through the choppy waters that lay between himself and his home port.

He can only hope the conditions are as favourable once he reaches dry land. If not, well, he’s always been good at thinking on his feet.  

~*~

Emma moves through the apartment on autopilot, slinging her suitcase onto her bed and taking her dirty clothes into the bathroom to dump them into the washing machine.  On one of her shuffling trips past the living room, she sees the two used mugs on the coffee table, and automatically clears them away before it clicks who’d left them there.

He always did like to use his barista skills to impress people, she thinks darkly.

There’s a dark pink lipstick smudge on one of them.  To her credit, Emma stops herself from chucking the damned thing against the nearest wall.  She doesn’t take any particular care as she dumps them into the kitchen sink either, but she doesn’t manage to break them.

 _Pity_ , she thinks, making a mental note never to drink out of those white mugs again.  

Her cell phone rings fifteen minutes after Killian and Jane have left, and she’s just getting ready to ignore it when she sees that it’s Kathryn calling.  Her heart sinking at the thought that her boss might have yet another urgent job, she picks up her phone and tries to sound as though she hasn’t been on a freaking emotional rollercoaster all night.

“Hello?”

“Emma, it’s Kathryn.”

“So my caller ID tells me.”

“I’m sorry to call you so late, but I need to talk to you about something.”

“It’s just after ten, it’s not that late,” Emma protests automatically, then frowns.  “Everything alright?  Freddy and the kids okay?”

“We’re all fine.”  She can hear the sound of traffic in the background, and realises that Kathryn is calling from her car.  “Are you home?”

“Yep.”

“Do you have company?”

Emma laughs as she walks slowly from the kitchen towards her bedroom, and it’s a bleak, humourless sound.  “I am very much alone, trust me.”

“Something urgent has come up.”  She hears Kathryn call some other driver a few interesting words, then she comes back to the call. “Do you mind if I drop over?”

Emma blinks.  “You want to come _here_?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”  Kathryn’s tone is firm and invites no dissent, something Emma’s only heard on a handful of other occasions. “It’s not something that can wait until Monday, I’m afraid.”

“Uh, sure.”  She rattles off her address, making sure Kathryn has the details before she hangs up, then looks around her.  The apartment is tidy enough not to disgrace her in front of her boss, not that she believes the other woman would care.  

Kathryn rings the buzzer at the front door only ten minutes later, and Emma knows then that she must have been already in the neighbourhood.  Doing her best to quiet the sudden bout of nerves, she opens the door with a smile. “Come on in.”

Her boss bustles past her, an overcoat-clad figure trailing just the right amount of Chanel as she moves, a laptop under her arm. “Sorry to do this to you on your weekend, but this can’t wait.”

“It’s okay.”

Emma leads the way into the kitchen, and Kathryn puts the laptop on the wooden table before swiftly shrugs out of her coat and scarf.  “It started raining just as I got out of the car, of course.”

“Rule of the universe,” Emma replies lightly, but she’s distracted, trying to gather clues from the other woman’s expression, but her boss has one of the best poker faces in the business.  “Do you want some coffee?”

“Thank you, no.”  Kathryn boots up her laptop, then gestures for Emma to take the chair beside her.  “Although a stiff drink might be in order once we’re done.”  Frowning, Emma watches as her boss brings up her email account, then opens the most recent message in her inbox. From what Emma can see, there’s an encrypted file attached.  “This was sent to me tonight from an old friend in the Boston PD.”  Kathryn swiftly types in a password. “I thought it would be best if you saw it for yourself.”

Emma looks.  She blinks, resisting the urge to rub her eyes, then looks again.  “Why you do have a surveillance picture of me with Walsh at dinner tonight?”

“Because my contact at the Boston PD emailed it to me just over an hour ago. Apparently she remembered you from her visit to our office a few months ago.” She clicks through to the next photograph, and Emma’s confusion grows.

“Felix Piper?”  She stares at the familiar, sharply-angled face of one of her more recent skips. “What’s he got to do with me?  Or with Walsh?”

Kathryn lets out a sigh, then turns to look at her. “It appears our friend Felix has been running with a very interesting crowd over the last year or so.”  There’s nothing in her tone to indicate impending disaster, but Emma’s pulse is already skipping erratically, because this is no social visit. “After you picked him up last week, he had his court date rescheduled and was released on bail.”

“What’s so special about that?”

“His bail was very promptly paid by _this_ woman.”  She clicks through to the next photograph. “And, as you can see, she has a connection to someone you know very well.”

Emma stares at the laptop screen, nausea rising in her throat. She shuts her eyes, hoping that when she opens them again, the photograph will show her something other than Felix Piper and Zelena Mills deep in conversation with Walsh.  

It doesn’t.

“This can’t be right.”  Even as she says the words, she knows that it is.  She recognises the background in the photograph, even though it was obviously taken at night. They’re outside the side entrance of Walsh’s store.  

Kathryn’s voice is gentle as she confirms what Emma already knows. “I’m afraid it is.”

Emma finds herself reaching a hand towards the laptop screen, and quickly snatches it back. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, her whole body feeling restless and off-kilter. “When was this photo taken?”

“Two months ago.”

That’s another lie, but hey, what’s one more lie amidst a whole fucking sea of lies?  “Walsh told me that last Sunday was the first time he’d met her.”

Kathryn pats her awkwardly on the shoulder, the weight of the other woman’s hand feeling like a bag of cement.  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Emma, but it seems your boyfriend has lied about a lot more than the duration of his relationship with Zelena Mills.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she mutters automatically, as if that makes any difference to the nightmare that’s playing out on Kathryn’s computer screen.

Her boss looks at her, obviously taken aback by this piece of news.  “Since when?”

Fighting the absurd urge to laugh, Emma checks her watch.  “Since about eight o’clock this evening, right after he asked me to marry him.”  

“He did what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Emma waves her hand, as if that might brush this particular line of questioning away, and points to the laptop.  “What the hell is this all about?  Why do the police have Walsh under surveillance?”

“They didn’t, at least not initially.”  Kathryn taps one perfectly manicured finger on Zelena’s face.  “They’d been watching _her_.”  

Emma sits back in her chair, suddenly feeling cold despite the warmth of the kitchen. “I don’t understand any of this.” The feeling of not being able to breathe is back, and she presses her hands flat on her chest, just above her breasts, pressing hard until she can feel the outline of her ribcage beneath her palms.   _Breathe.  Just breathe._ “What’s Walsh’s part in this?”

Kathryn shuts the laptop with a decisive flick of her wrist, but nothing will ever dislodge the mental image of those photographs from Emma’s mind.  “I’ll explain as much as I know. Do you need a moment?”

Emma clenches her jaw, willing herself not to give in to the tears she can feel burning her eyes.  She’s cried over Walsh once already tonight.  She refuses to let him take anything else from her. “Tell me.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Kathryn talks without interruption.  It’s quite the tale, as Killian would say, and if it were about someone else, Emma might be entertained.  It’s about the man she thought she knew better than anyone, though, and it makes her feel sick to her stomach. She stares at her hands, splayed flat on the kitchen table, as Kathryn recites facts and figures about a spate of robberies from high-end business and apartments, first in Chicago three years ago, and now here in Boston.  How Zelena was suspected of recruiting petty thieves in both cities, grooming them as her personal, criminal entourage, using her contacts in the design world to source potential targets.  

Finally, how they knew she had a ‘silent’ partner who helped coordinate the hits and her underlings, but they could never get a fix on anyone in either her social or professional circle.

Until now, that is.  

Emma closes her eyes.  Walsh had moved to Boston from Chicago three years ago.  His store had only been open just over a year before she’d met him by arresting one of his employees.   _Oh, God, what if he’d already known that his employee had a criminal record?  What if that was actually the reason he’d hired the girl in the first place?_   Her head is already spinning, but she has to ask.  “Are they together?”

Kathryn, usually so no-nonsense, looks at her with such compassion that Emma wishes the ground would swallow her whole.  “There’s no indication that their relationship is anything other than a business arrangement, but I think it’s fairly safe to assume that he’s not the man you thought he was.”

Emma’s mouth is painfully dry, but she doesn’t seem to have the energy to walk to the refrigerator. “Apparently not.”  She doesn’t tell Kathryn that it would have been less painful if he’d just been sleeping with Zelena.  

Kathryn hesitates, then seems to come to some decision. “I do have another tidbit of information, but I’m afraid it’s even more grim.”

Once again, Emma feels the ridiculous urge to laugh. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

“It seems the authorities believe Walsh has some good friends in the CBP.”

(It takes Emma a few seconds to remember the entity behind the initials.  When she does - customs, border protection – her heart seems to sink right down to her boots.)

“The type of good friends who will look the other way when certain shipments come in.” Kathryn goes on gently, but the words still break over Emma like shattered glass. “For a price, of course.”

“So, basically, we’re talking importing prohibited substances on the side while helping mastermind a B&E ring.”Emma’s eyes blur hotly as the last two years of her life come crumbling down around her.  “Is that right?”

“Officially, it’s all _alleged_ at this point, but it’s not looking good. I’m so sorry, Emma.”

Swallowing hard (God, her throat is burning) she shakes her head.  “Why are _you_ sorry?  You’re not the one who’s been lying to me from the moment we met.”

Concern sweeps across the other woman’s face.  “I didn’t want to dump all this on you, but you needed to know.”

“He asked me to marry him.”  Emma looks at her boss.  “Who the hell _does_ that when they’re leading a fucking double life?”

“Someone who likes having tight control over every aspect of their life?”  Kathryn touches the back of Emma’s left hand lightly, as if wanting to double check there’s no engagement ring in sight.  “Or maybe a man in the habit of using people to further his own interests?”

Kathryn’s words bring to mind a terrible possibility. Emma tries to push it away, but she can’t.  “He was always so interested in my work.”   _Oh, God,_ she’s been such a fool _._ “Always wanted to know how my day had been and what new ‘bad guy’ stories I had for him.”

“Emma, none of this is your fault.”

Emma feels as though she’s swallowed a glass of crushed ice.  “I never gave him any names, but what’s to say he didn’t help himself to my laptop or my phone every time I slept at his place?”

Kathryn shakes her head.  “Don’t do this to yourself. None of this is your doing.”

She’s not sure which urge is more pressing, the need to throw up or get in her car and drive to Walsh’s place and punch him in the face.  Maybe she’ll do both. “Maybe we should have that drink now.”  She’s amazed that she sounds so normal.  “You know, to celebrate me achieving a new low in bad breakups.”

Kathryn gives her a worried glance (maybe she doesn’t sound as normal as she thinks she does) then peers up the hallway that leads away from the kitchen. “Where are your friends this weekend?”

Emma blinks, feeling like a concussion victim being asked what day of the week it is.  “Uh, Mary Margaret and David are out of town, and Killian is-” She breaks off, her voice cracking over his name, because everything is beyond wrong, and she _needs_ him.  “He’s out for the night,” she finally manages to say, and her boss frowns.

“You’re more than welcome to come and spend the weekend at my place, if you’d like?”

Even through the murky black cloud engulfing Emma’s thoughts, she remembers that Kathryn has two children under five, and she’s so not in the right frame of mind for that kind of company.  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

Pulling the laptop towards her, Kathryn glances at her quickly. “No plans to speak to Walsh this weekend, I take it?”

Emma rubs her fingertips against her temples, wishing she could magic away the dull throbbing in her head.  “Definitely not.”

A few minutes later, Kathryn is once again bundled up in her overcoat, her laptop securely tucked under her arm.  “I’ll be in touch if anything else pops up.”  She pauses, then gives Emma an awkward, one-armed hug.  “At this point, Walsh has no idea you know any of this, of course.  If he _does_ contact you-”

Emma shakes her head. Nothing would induce her to speak to Walsh tonight. “If he does, I won’t be taking his calls or letting him in the door, so it’s a moot point.”

“There’s my employee of the year,” Kathryn says lightly, giving Emma’s shoulder a quick squeeze.  “Call me if you need anything.”

When Kathryn is gone, Emma locks the front door, even the deadbolt, her movements unhurried and steady, fuelled by cold, calm rage. She’s not afraid of Walsh, but neither is she a naïve fool.  She might have the benefit of Kathryn’s father’s legacy of connections in the local police department, but things that are meant to be kept secret rarely stay that way.  If she and Kathryn know about Walsh and his little crew, then maybe they’re not the only ones.  

She stands in the hallway, at a loss as to what to do next.  She wants to call Mary Margaret.  She wants a hot shower to scrub away the long drive and the memory of Walsh’s touch.

She wants-

Wrapping her arms around herself, she lets out a shaky breath, because there’s one thing she wants more than anything.

She wants Killian to come home.

Standing in the living room, she looks at his closed bedroom door.  She thinks of how he’d looked at her when she’d told him that Walsh had proposed, how he’d pushed her and _pushed_ her about her fears.  

The regret swimming in his eyes when he’d told her that now they’d never know if they were meant to be something more.

_Fuck._

Her gaze falls upon the antique end table Walsh had presented to her on their second date.  At the time, she’d been so impressed (she hadn’t mentioned the damned thing to him, just cast longing looks at it whenever she was in his store) but now she wonders what sordid history is behind it.  Anger begins to thrum through her, sparking through her blood and pushing her forward.  Carefully, she moves the photo frames and books sitting on top of it, then carries it into the middle of the living room, away from the big screen TV.

Five minutes later, she’s panting, sweat prickling her scalp and trailing down her spine beneath her dress.  Her arms are aching and she’ll probably have a bruise on her shin tomorrow, but it was worth it.  She carefully kicks the pieces of wood that were once her end table into a small pile on the rug, and feels her mouth twist in a fleeting smile.

_Much better._

Afterwards, she takes a long shower, standing unmoving under the hot water for a long time, feeling a dull sort of gratitude that she’s alone for the evening and doesn’t have to worry about using more than her fair share.  She scrubs her face, wanting every trace of the makeup she’d worn to dinner gone.  A moment later, the smell of her usual body wash (the pink one Killian refuses to use, accusing it of being ‘far too womanly for his dashing self’) fills steamy air around her, chasing away the last memory of Walsh’s aftershave.

She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror as she dries off and pulls on her favourite pair of pyjamas.  She doesn’t have to see her reflection to know that she looks as miserable as she feels, and right now she has no words of comfort for the unhappy woman in the fogged up mirror.

She’s briefly tempted to reacquaint herself with that open bottle of Chardonnay in the refrigerator, but she knows there’s not enough wine in the apartment (or the city) to make the hurt and regret she’s feeling go away.  

_Wouldn’t you like to know?_

She might not be a naïve fool when it comes to Walsh, at least not anymore, but when it comes to Killian Jones, it seems she’s a fucking idiot.

She should try to sleep, but she has the feeling that’s not going to happen.  Instead, she makes her way to the living room and turns on the television.  She finds a music channel playing one-hit wonders (she winces, because does _every_ damned thinghave to remind her of Killian?) and sinks down onto the couch, trying not to think of how many nights she’s sat here with him while he made her laugh until she couldn’t breathe.  

Curling up in the corner of the couch, her knees almost tucked up to her chest, she closes her eyes, telling herself she’ll get up and go to bed very soon.

Maybe, she thinks as the old song about groove being in the heart fades in and out, washing over her like a strange lullaby, she’ll wake up tomorrow morning and all of this will have been nothing more than a really bad dream.

~*~

 


	10. Chapter 10

~*~ 

The apartment is quiet when he lets himself in.  With some difficulty, he might add, seeing as Emma appears to have engaged all the locks, even the ones they seldom use, and he doesn’t usually perform this task while carrying a box of assorted donuts and a tub of peanut butter ice-cream.

(He’d been tempted to buy Chunky Monkey, but decided that perhaps that would be taking things a little too far.)

Uncertain as to whether his housemate is sleeping or even still in the apartment, he treads warily down the hallway.  As he gets closer to the living room, he can hear that the television is on (it’s that sodding song about boot-scooting, he’d thought the world would have been spared that one by now), and he knows Emma is not only still home, she must be still awake.

_Or perhaps not,_  he thinks as he surveys the scene before him a few seconds later.

The first thing he sees is Emma, curled up on her favourite couch, sound asleep. The second is the neat pile of shattered wood on the floor in the middle of the living room. 

Two intriguing sights, but he only has eyes for one of them.

He quickly visits the kitchen to stash food he’d stopped to buy on the way home (the struggle to find something that wasn’t pumpkin pie flavoured had been quite real), then heads back to the living room. 

She’s still asleep.

Putting his phone and car keys on the coffee table, he shrugs out of his jacket and perches on the edge of the couch, allowing himself the luxury of brushing a few errant strands of hair back from Emma’s face.  Her lovely features are soft and vulnerable in sleep, and his chest tightens with longing.  God, what a fool he’s been, hiding behind his misguided sense of chivalry. Telling himself that he was protecting her by keeping his distance.  

Her eyes suddenly fly open, wide and clear, and she stares up at him in fright.  “What?”

All he can think is thank God he hadn’t given into the temptation of brushing his knuckles against the softness of her cheek. “It’s just me.”

“Shit.” She struggles to sit up, and he leans back to give her some space.  “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

She looks up at him.  There’s a faint crease on her cheek from the cushion she’d used a pillow. Her eyes are faintly red, her face scrubbed bare of all makeup, her hair a messy cloud of gold that contrasts starkly with her sapphire blue pyjamas.

She takes his breath away.   

He glances at the neat pile of wood on the rug, then at the empty space where once had stood a small, overpriced table. Turning back to Emma (Jane had been right, she’s definitely been crying) he begins to suspect there may be more to this tale than meets the eye. “Is everything alright?”

“That’s kind of a long story.” She straightens her pyjama top, and he’d be lying if he didn’t greatly appreciate the way the silken fabric flatters her braless breasts. “What are you doing here?”

Her voice is small, almost nervous.  Putting his elbows on his knees, he links his hands together to stop himself from reaching out to her. “I know you’ve been spending some time amongst the bright city lights of New York lately, Swan, but I do still live here.”

“It’s just that, uh, I thought you’d be spending the night at Jane’s.”

Jealousy resonates from the mumbled words, and it makes his heart sing. (God help him, he’s only human.) He shifts slightly, letting her swing her legs over the side of the couch so she can sit up properly. Whether by accident or design, she ends up sitting quite close to him, and he does his best to ignore the long length of silk-clad thigh next to his own. “Well, that would be quite awkward, considering she and I decided this evening that it wouldn’t work out between us.”

“Oh.”  She looks down at her hands, and his gaze follows hers.  There’s no ring on her left hand, and his heart soars a little higher.  As if feeling the weight of his regard, she looks up at him, her green gaze meeting his with an impact that sets his pulse to racing.  “I said no, in case you were wondering.”

He grins, wondering if there’s any chilled champagne in the refrigerator, because if ever there was an occasion that needed celebrating, this is it. “I was.”

Her gaze drops to his mouth, her eyelashes fluttering dark and full even without the benefit of mascara, then lifts to his eyes once more. “If you must know, I broke up with him five minutes after he asked me to marry him.”

“May I ask why?”

The ghost of their earlier heated conversation drifts between them, and for a few tense seconds, he doesn’t think she’s going to answer him.  Finally, she lifts her head, meeting his gaze steadily. “I wasn’t in love with him.”

His heart is already pounding a staccato beat against his ribs, but they don’t pay him the big bucks at work for not being able to keep a straight face. “Which is a  _very_  sound reason not to get married, I’ve always thought.”

Her mouth trembles in a quick smile. “Well,  _you’d_  know, Mr Divorce Lawyer.”

Her teasing mirrors his own thoughts so exactly that it’s almost disconcerting, and he finds himself succumbing to the one nervous tell he still possesses, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that might help the right words magically appear on his tongue.  “You said it was a long story?”

She pulls a face that he thinks is meant to be comical, but he can see the anxiety in her eyes. “Walsh isn’t who I thought he was.”

Reaching across, he takes her left hand, threading his fingers through hers until her palm is pressed warmly against his.  “So he’s  _not_  a complete wanker selling overpriced flotsam and jetsam to bearded fools with too much money?”

She laughs, but it sounds more like a hiccup, and he’s dismayed to see that her eyes are suddenly brimming with tears.  “No, he  _is_ that.”  She dashes at her eyes with the right sleeve of her pyjama top, her left hand tightening around his.  “Kathryn came to see me tonight.”

“Your boss?  What’s she got to do with Monkey Boy?” She gives him an admonishing look, but he doesn’t care.  For the first time in years, he’s in exactly the right place at the right time where Emma Swan is concerned, and he’s not going to mess it up.

She blows out a loud breath. “I don’t know if-” She breaks off, obviously hesitant, and he squeezes her hand gently.

“Emma.” He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, and feels an answering trembling in her grasp. “You can tell me anything.” 

Her pale cheeks flush charmingly at his words. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  She takes another deep breath, then launches into the most extraordinary of tales.

(She doesn’t let go of his hand the whole time, which is probably for the best, given the urge to pick up his car keys and drive to the simian-faced bastard’s house that comes over him several times during her recitation.)

When she’s finished, she gives him a shaky smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  “Kathryn said she’d call me if she learned anything else.”

He stares at her, his head reeling with everything he’s just heard.  She’s watching him anxiously, as if she’s worried about his reaction, and he flashes her a quick smile. “Hypothetically, if a man were to punch a lying sack of crap in the mouth until his giant white teeth rattled, would that still be considered assault?”

That earns him another laugh that sounds like a hiccup.  “I’m afraid so.”

Perhaps it’s the lateness of the hour, but he can’t resist the urge to indulge in a spot of polite gloating. “I knew that ridiculous shop of his could never bring in the kind of cash he liked to flash around.”

Her eyes widen, but he sees the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Really?  I’ve just found out my ex-boyfriend is under suspicion of allegedly masterminding a breaking and entering racket  _and_ drug trafficking, and all you can say is I told you so?”

“What I’m saying is that you deserve far better, Swan.”  He feels as though someone is pressing down on his chest, making his breath come fast and shallow. “You always did.”

Her eyes are still brimming with tears, but this time he gets a real smile. “Thank you.”

He gives the hand he’s still holding (how did that happen?) a gentle squeeze. “Happy Thanksgiving, Swan.”

Her smile wobbles slightly, as if the timing of this latest calamity has just dawned on her. “Right back at you, Jones.”

Perhaps it’s because he’s still trying to process the revelations about Walsh (that mealy-mouthed  _prick_ ), but it’s only when Emma puts her hand on his knee that he realises that she’s moved close enough for him to kiss her. 

He doesn’t get the chance, however, because she kisses  _him_.

It’s little more than a soft, chaste touching of her mouth to his, but it’s almost his undoing.  He can taste the salt of her tears, and the scent of her skin, her body, rises around him like a bloody siren’s song.   The memory of their last kiss floods his mind, and he remembers how she’d felt against him, soft and warm and wanting him.  It would be so easy to take what she’s offering, so easy to lose himself in the heat of the moment. 

He wants her.  He wants  _this._  What he  _doesn’t_ want is their first time to be a comfort shag, something to help her to forget while she cries over another bloody man’s betrayal.  Not quite able to believe what he’s about to do (apparently he’s thinking with his head rather than his cock, which is a miracle in itself) he pulls away. 

That almost wrecks him, too.

He wants so much more, for both of them, and her evening has obviously quite stressful already. Now that they’re both here and finally talking, perhaps it would be wiser to take a few deep breaths and let what whatever’s going to happen unfold in its own time.  He’s already spent two weeks carrying the delicate burden of their last kiss alone.  The last thing he wants is for her to regret something she actually  _will_  remember.

He lifts his hands to cup her face, brushing his thumbs over her damp cheeks. “You know what you need?”

The smirk that curls her lips tests his willpower greatly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“A hot chocolate.”  He tilts his head towards the kitchen.  “To go with the donuts I purchased on the way home.”

She stares at him. “You don’t like donuts.”

It’s an absurdly ordinary thing to say, considering the circumstances, but she’s quite right, he doesn’t like them, although he’s rather fond of that peanut butter ice-cream. “I didn’t buy them for me.”

He sees her pale throat work as she swallows. There’s a wealth of unspoken words between them, but her next question is quite direct. “Is there a bear claw?” He grins. He’d had to visit three different convenience stores on the way home to find one that stocked her beloved bear claws, but it had been worth it. He’s normally a more traditional man when it comes to presenting gifts to women, but he knows better than to give Emma Swan flowers as an apology. “What do you think?”

She leans forward, the tip of her nose almost touching his. “I think you’re the best housemate ever.”

_Bloody hell._ Closing his eyes, he presses his lips to her forehead before he can do anything foolish, like cover her mouth with his and push her back onto the couch and kiss her until she’s writhing beneath him.  Her forehead is smooth and warmth beneath his mouth, and possibility sparks through his blood like lightening. “Would I be correct in assuming you want cinnamon on your hot chocolate?”

Her green eyes light up. “You  _would_ be correct.”

He gets to his feet, dearly hoping that his fly-buttoned jeans are protecting his modesty adequately.  “One hot chocolate, coming right up.”  He smiles down at her as she tucks herself gracefully into the corner of the couch. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Trust me, I’m too exhausted to move any further than this couch tonight.”

Well, he muses as he walks quickly towards the kitchen, he certainly hopes that’s the case.  One of these days, he’s going to stop chasing this woman.

Once he’s safely alone in the kitchen, he adjusts the straining ridge of his erection through his jeans and laughs silently at his own outlandish vow.  One day, perhaps, but it definitely isn’t going to be this evening.

 

~*~

 

Emma’s heart pounding in time with his receding footsteps, she stares at the hallway where Killian has just vanished, apparently to make her a hot chocolate and bring her back a bear claw.

She puts her hands over her face.  Seriously, what the hell just happened?

She’d kissed him, she definitely remembers doing that.  His mouth had been soft and warm and strangely familiar, even though she  _knows_ she’s never kissed him before, not like that.  He hadn’t objected, but then again, he hadn’t done anything to keep the kiss going.  Instead, he’d pulled back, taken her face in his hands and wiped away her tears. Then he’d offered to make her hot chocolate, kissed her forehead so tenderly she’d felt the tears threatening to return, and vanished into the kitchen.

She’s never been more confused in her life, and she’s had a pretty fucking confusing day.

She stretches out on the couch, rolling her eyes at the television screen as she catches sight of the desperate flailing described as dancing by a lead singer whose name she’s completely forgotten.  Her gaze then falls on the smashed remains of her end table, and she can’t help smiling at the realisation that Killian hadn’t even asked her about it.  He’d obviously put two and two together and come up with the answer on his own, and she might just love him a little more for it.

She loves him.

Oh, God.

The buzzing of an incoming text message has her automatically check the non-existent pocket of her pyjamas before she realises that it’s coming from Killian’s phone, which is sitting on the coffee table.  From where she’s sitting, she can see it’s from his brother Liam, and because her housemate is still completely hopeless when it comes to cell phone security, the text message preview is also there for all the world to see.

Well, maybe not all the world, but definitely her.

_As you enjoyed the last photo so much, here’s another criminally adorable puppy snap of Molly for you to admire. The less than adorable shredded hall table legs not shown._

The word  _puppy_ has her reaching for the phone in a heartbeat. “You didn’t tell me Liam and Annie got a puppy,” she mutters at a missing Killian, then she taps the photo attachment with her thumb, her heart doing an odd little jig when she sees the wide mouth puppy smile that fills the screen.   _Wow,_ she thinks as a wave of canine-related longing washes over her, _she really is criminally adorable._

Later, she will try to remember what she was thinking when she thumbed backwards through the camera roll.  In her own defence, Liam  _did_ mention an earlier photo, and she really  _did_ want to see more photos of Molly.

Suddenly, she’s staring at a photograph that makes no sense, because in it she’s kissing Killian in a bathroom.

_Their_ bathroom. 

And not just kissing him, either. She’s pushing him back against the sink, her body plastered against his, their mouths practically fused together.  His face is flushed, his eyes tightly closed, with one hand in her hair and the other on her back. 

She stares at it, her heart racing, feeling as though her whole body is buzzing with embarrassment.  _She_ took this photo, she can tell by the angle of the shot, and  _that_  is the red sweater that she was wearing the Thursday night they’d gotten trashed on vodka shots.

Oh, God.

She closes her eyes, desperately trying to  _remember_ , pulling together the holes in her memory of that night, because she knows now that  _this_  is the conversation she keeps hearing in her head.  This is the something that she keeps thinking that she’s missed.  This is the punchline to the joke she couldn’t remember hearing.

Oh,  _God._

She stares at the screen, memory flitting in and out of her head like a badly tuned radio, clear then fuzzy in turn until finally, the fog clears and it’s there, flooding into her head in a harsh, vivid rush.

_She’s angry._

_Angry at Walsh for ditching their plans once again, and angry at herself for falling off the fucking unrequited lust wagon and start thinking about what it would be like to kiss her dangerously attractive male housemate, because she’s supposed to be over all that bullshit.  The vodka is smooth as it burns a path down her throat, warming the pit of her stomach, making her hyperaware of the way Killian’s watching her, his gaze licking hotly over her lips and her breasts as surely as if he’s put his mouth on her.   When their ‘guess the crappy song lyrics’ game comes to end (she totally nails it), he smirks at her, that right fucking eyebrow arching like a question mark.   “What shall we play now, Swan?”_

_“I have an idea.”  She slowly crawls from her end of the couch to where he’s sitting, his long legs stretched out in front of him.  He watches her, bright blue eyes as dark as sapphires, and she feels a heat wash over her that has nothing to do with the vodka.  “What about a quick round of truth or dare?”_

_He stares at her, looking as though she’s just asked him to strip off and do an interpretive dance.  “Uh, perhaps next time, love.”  Getting unsteadily to his feet, he gives her a bright smile.  “I might just get a drink of water.”  He pats the top of her head (pats her, for fuck’s sake, like he’s her big brother), and quickly slips past her.  “Back in a tick.”_

_Disgruntled and feeling more than a little snubbed, she slumps on the couch, scowling at the coffee table.  When she spies his phone, a devilish impulse comes over her.  He never locks the_ _damned thing, despite her nagging him about security and privacy, and it’s all too easy to open up his camera app.  Scrambling off the couch, she goes in search of her subject._

_“Killian. Come here.  I need a photo of you for my rogue’s gallery of friends and well-wishers.”_

_She might be hammered, she decides, but she’s still hilarious._

_He calls out from the bathroom. “Be right with you, Swan.”_

_“Oops, not in the kitchen.” She pivots unsteadily, heading towards the sound of his voice. The bathroom door is open, so it’s not as though he’d be doing anything private, she decides. “Come on, Jones. I hardly have any photos of you and me.”_

_He’s drying his face when she launches herself into the bathroom.  When he tosses the hand towel aside and turns to look at her, his eyes are glittering with an emotion that she’s suddenly too frightened to name.  He looks at her steadily, not like prey that’s been cornered but prey that has no intention of trying to escape.  She’s moving towards him before she’s conscious of taking a single step, and when she puts his phone onto the top of the vanity next to his hip, she hears him exhale a long, soft sigh._

_Maybe she’s not the only one who’s seen this coming._

_When she curls her hands in the front of his sweatshirt, he doesn’t move an inch.  He just looks at her from beneath those eyelashes she’d give her right arm to have, his lips softly parted, pink and smooth against his dark beard, and she knows there’s no going back now._

_She kisses him, and the whole world stops._

_When he kisses her back, the world starts again, humming along to a different beat, and everything changes._

Now, two weeks later, Emma sits in their living room, her face burning and her stomach churning, and wonders how he could have kept this from her.  All this time, he has let her go merrily about her business as if nothing had happened.  He’d seen her every single fucking day, all the time knowing she didn’t remember what they’d done, what  _she_  had done, and he hadn’t said a word. 

She’d  _asked_  him if she’d done anything embarrassing that night, and he’d said no.  She’d believed him.  Worse than that, she’d  _trusted_ him. 

She drops the phone as though it’s burned her.  It falls silently onto the couch beside her just as Killian reappears, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate.  She snatches up the phone again with a shaking hand, holding it up so he can see the screen.

“What the hell is this?”

 

~*~

 

Killian spares only a quick glance at his phone (after all, he already knows which photograph is on the screen) before he puts the mugs down with exaggerated care on the coffee table. On one hand, this development is a great relief.  On the other, it’s also something he really didn’t want to have to tackle this evening. He sits down at the other end of the couch, careful to give her (and her anger) enough space. “I realise it was probably a rhetorical question, but that’s a photograph of you and I kissing.” 

Her gaze narrows dangerously, as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to knock his block off.  Deciding he’d rather his phone not get trashed along with his face, he reaches out and takes it from her hand, placing it carefully on the coffee table. “Rather good shot composition, I must say.”

“I know  _what_ it is,” she shoots back at him, her voice tight.  “What I want to know is why you told me I didn’t do anything embarrassing that night when I obviously  _did_!”

He looks at the phone (that bloody photograph is still taunting him from the screen), then back up at her.  “Perhaps because I didn’t think you  _had_ done anything embarrassing.” 

The look she gives him could almost flay the skin from his bones. “How long were you going to keep this a secret from me?”

He can’t remember witnessing this thorough a cross-examination in a long time.  If it wasn’t directed at him, he’d be quite impressed. (He’s still a little impressed, he has to admit.) “I wanted you to remember in your own time.”  He waves a hand towards his phone, hoping he doesn’t sound as bloody wistful as he feels. “I didn’t want to put you in the position of having to let me down gently.”

That seems to take her aback, and it’s a few seconds before she regathers herself. “Who else has seen that photo?”

“Not a soul.”

Technically, it’s true.  Liam might know about the kiss, but Killian has shared the photograph with no one.

She glares at him, and in her eyes he sees the litany of other people’s sins, the liars who have come and gone before him. “I don’t believe you.”

Her words have the effect of touching a nerve in a toothache, because he suddenly finds himself on his feet. “Since when have I been in the habit of lying to you?”

She rises to her feet as well, her hands flying furious through the air with each new word. “You lied to me about that night.”

He can’t help the exasperated look he gives her. “I beg to differ, love.”

She shakes her head, her face pinched and pale. “A lie of omission is still a lie.”

He takes a step towards her then, keeping his gaze locked with hers. “And reading someone else’s text messages on someone else’s phone without their express permission is bad form, if not actual trespass.”

Obviously flustered by the (quite valid) accusation, she huffs out an angry breath. “Liam sent a puppy photo!”

Perhaps later, he’ll remember this exchange and smile.  Right now, though, he’s so frustrated it’s all he can do not to shout his answer back at her. “So fluffy content negates the morality of snooping?”

She fumes silently at that for a few seconds, her arms crossed over her chest.  Finally, she looks at him. “ _I_  kissed  _you,_ didn’t I _?_ ”

There’s no point sugar coating anything, not now. “Yes, and quite thoroughly, too.”

Her face is decidedly rosy, the corners of her mouth turned down. “Why the  _hell_  didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I was  _trying_  to do the honourable thing.”

“Honourable?” He takes a step towards her, and she lifts her chin, as if daring him to come closer. He doesn’t. “I cheated on Walsh and  _you_  didn’t think I deserved to know that?”

He feels like they’re teetering on a precipice.  One false move and what’s between them will be over, smashed to pieces like her bloody table, never to be repaired. “It was just a kiss.”

“It was more than that. It’s always been more than that.”  She glares at him, suddenly looking as though she’s about to cry. “And we both know it.”

Stunned that she’s finally said the words the two of them have been dancing around for years, he can only stare at her as she stalks to the coat rack, pulling her overcoat on over her pyjamas.  Finally, amidst the panicked certainty that she’s bloody well running away from him, he finds his voice. “Emma, please don’t do this.”

Without saying a word, she snatches up her house keys from the sideboard and heads for the front door.  “You’re wearing your slippers, love.”  Even in the heat of battle, he can’t resist pointing out the obvious. “Where the devil are you going to go?”

“Anywhere but here.”  Then she’s gone, slamming the front door behind her.

“Bloody hell.” He has his own house keys in his hand in a heartbeat, not bothering to waste time by grabbing his jacket even though he knows it’s going to be freezing outside.   _Perhaps in more ways than one,_  he thinks bleakly, but he has to try. 

The elevator doors are just closing by the time he’s locked the front door and stormed down the hallway.  _Curse her and her superior fitness level_ , he thinks darkly. He heads for the stairs, all four bloody flights of them, fuelled by adrenalin and fury and the very real fear that if he doesn’t fix this mess in the next five minutes, he’ll lose her forever.

It seems that today  _definitely_ isn’t the day he’s going to stop chasing her.

It’s no longer raining, but the streets are still wet, glittering in the pale November moonlight. His breath is coming too fast (he really needs to start running again) but he’s closed the distance between them, and she’s just reached the end of the paved driveway when he catches up with her. “Swan, this is madness. Come back inside, we’ll have a drink.”

“Not in the mood for a drink.”  She glares at him over her shoulder as she quickens her pace.  “Or you.”

She’ll be the bloody death of him, he thinks.  Right now, however, he doesn’t care.  He lengthens his stride until he’s close enough to reach out his hand and curl it around her arm, halting her flight.  “Emma, please.”

She stops in her tracks, spinning to face him, her eyes glittering with tears.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you that you'd kissed me.” There's no way he can make things worse at this point, so he may as well be brutally honest. “It’s like I said, love, I just didn't want you to feel as though you had to let me down gently. If you’d like, we can forget it ever happened.”

(He’ll never be able to forget it, but this is one time when he’s prepared to lie to her.)

She closes her eyes, but she doesn’t shake off his touch. “You think I'm angry because I kissed you?”

He stares at her, bewildered. “Isn’t that what this is about?”

She opens her eyes, and he almost takes a step back at the anger in them. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me to hear all that crap about Walsh tonight?”

His heart is aching for her, but he knows now is not the time to try to comfort her. “No, I can’t imagine.”

“I loved him.”  She says the word _loved_ as if it’s a toxic thing, and in this case, he has to agree. “But as usual, he wasn't who he said he was, and I got my heart broken.”

Each word is like a needle digging into his skin, yet he’s pleased to hear her say them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I'm glad to hear it.”

She stares at him. “You’re  _glad_  I've had my heart broken?”

He closes the distance between them, running his hands down her arms to take her hands in his, threading his fingers through hers. “If it can be broken,” he says gently, hoping to soften the impact of his words, “that means it still works.”

She blinks, her eyes still glittering. “Everyone I've ever been with has let me down.”

_And there,_ he thinks sadly, _is the crux of the matter_. “I'm not them.”

“I know.” She looks down, sniffing softly, then lifts her gaze to his. “I'm not very good at this kind of thing.”

“I beg to differ, Swan.” He flashes her a quick smile. “I know how you kiss, remember?”

“You know what I mean.” She shoots him a faintly pleading look. “I don’t know if we should do this.” Her lovely face crumples a little, her hands tightening around his. “I want to, so much, but you’re my best friend,” she tells him in a shaky whisper, and something tightens in his chest.  “What if we fuck it up?” She’s crying now, tears shining on her face, and it’s all he can do to let her finish. “I’ve already lost so many people. I can’t lose you, too.”

Killian stares at her, feeling more than a little shell-shocked, because something extraordinarily important has just dawned on him.

She loves him. 

She bloody well loves him and he wants to pick her up and spin her around like they’re in some sodding clichéd movie scene, but instead he lifts one hand to tug at the lapels of her overcoat. “Do you remember the first day we met, Swan?”

Confusion flickers across her face at the change of subject, but she nods, blinking back tears. “Yes.”

“So I do.”  He curls a strand of her hair around his finger, enjoying the silk against his skin. “I remember everything about it, actually.”  He glances up at the night sky, and knows her gaze has followed his. “The position of the sun in the sky above the courtyard when you shook my hand.” He looks back at her, tweaking the label of her coat between his fingers. “That pretty green shirt you were wearing.”

“Killian.” She’s smiling now, a tremulous curving of her lips, but he’s not quite finished.

“I especially remember the way my heart did a bloody somersault every time you smiled at me.” As if to prove his point, her smile grows at that, making his pulse quicken. “No matter what happens, love, you won't lose me, I promise.”

Her lips part softly, and his own mouth tingles with the memory of her kiss. ‘Why are you telling me all this now?”  She puts her hands on his chest, and he thinks his heart might just pound right through his ribcage.  “Why not last year, or the year before that?”

He decides that it’s way past time to throw all his cards on the table, and damn the consequences. “Because I’m tired of pretending that I don’t love you.”

Her face begins to glow, as if someone’s lit a candle inside her, and she draws in a shaky breath. “You love me.”

“That I do.” His heart is  _definitely_  attempting to crack its way through his ribs now. “Emma-” he begins, wanting to tell her that there’s no need for her to return the sentiment, not before she’s ready, then realises there’s something else he really needs to do before he says another word.

She makes a soft, sweet sound of surprise when he kisses her, then her mouth opens beneath his like a flower.  He buries his hand in her hair, tilting back her head as their kiss deepens, tasting and teasing, and her hands slide around his waist, pulling him closer.  Her mouth is sweet and hot, and he wants to sink to his knees and drown in the taste of her. When she rocks her hips into his, the soft warmth of her pressing right where he’s already hard and aching, he can’t choke down the strangled sound that hums in his throat. 

She draws back slightly, her nose nudging his, her breath hot against his lips.  Her breasts brush against his chest with every gulping breath he takes, and it takes him a moment to remember that they’re in the middle of the bloody street.  She touches her mouth to his again, then smiles. “Let’s go home.”

He grins, letting his whiskered chin brush against her throat, enjoying the shiver that goes through her.  “I suppose you want your hot chocolate.”

One hand slides up his back, slipping between his waistcoat and his shirt, letting him feel the warmth of her palm through the thin cotton. “Not exactly.”

Curling his hand around the nape of her neck, he gently bites at her jaw, the delicate curve just beneath her ear, and she sucks in a sharp breath.  “Bear claw?”

She digs her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him close, shoving one long pyjama-clad thigh between his.  Her eyes are glittering like emeralds, her mouth soft and red from his kiss. “Maybe afterwards.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

 

~*~

 

They make it to the apartment without causing a public scene, but it’s a close thing.  It’s only Killian’s whispered reminder about the newly installed security cameras in the elevator that has her keeping her hands to herself, and she makes a mental note to tell him off about the heated looks he keeps giving her when he knows damned well she can’t do anything about them.

Once they’re inside, though, it’s a different story.

“Pretty sure it's  _bad form_  to be a big, fat tease,” she quips, then breaks off, because they’re finally behind closed doors and his hands are sliding up her arms and his eyes are frantically searching hers as though he’s trying to get inside her head. The silence of the apartment reminds her that they’re very much alone, and the impulse to blurt out everything she’s keep locked down inside her head for so many years is suddenly so strong she can hardly breathe. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what happened at dinner tonight when you asked-” He makes a sound of pure exasperation under his breath before bends his head to hers, his palms warm against her skin as he cups her face in his hands. There is a split-second of anticipation, then his mouth is on hers and he is kissing her and she is kissing him back, the feel of his tongue brushing against hers enough to make her knees quiver.

He loves her.

Her back hits the wall of the hallway with a dull thud, then her arms are around his neck and the solid warmth of his body is pressed against her from neck to knee and, oh God,  _that_  feels a thousand times better than she ever could have imagined, too. (Oh, she knows this has happened before, but that’s a hazy memory compared to the solid heat of him pressing against her.) His mouth tastes of coffee and heat, his tongue curling around hers again and again, tasting and teasing, each tiny movement sending flashes of desire along every single one of her nerve-endings. By the time his hands slide down to her hips to urge her even closer, she doesn't care that there's still so many conversations they need to have.

They’ve got all weekend, after all.

He's whisked away her overcoat –  _you look good in everything, Swan, but I'm not sure that coat goes with those pyjamas –_ and is leading her into the apartment before she's even had time to blink. That's okay with her, though, because they've wasted enough time.

As soon as they reach the living room, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her until they're both breathless and flushed and she's up on her tip toes, her whole body humming with the need to get closer. He's hard against her belly, his hand buried deep in her hair, his tongue stroking hers with a tender challenge that has her kissing him back just as fiercely.  When she starts to unbutton his waistcoat (things are _way_ uneven here, seeing as she’s only wearing her pyjamas and he’s wearing too many damned layers), he nips gently at her bottom lip, one hand sliding down her back to squeeze her ass.  “We appear to be spoiled for choice when it comes to boudoirs, love.”

She finally gets his waistcoat open and goes to work on his shirt buttons. “You can’t just say _your room or mine_?”  Her fingers are clumsy, but she’s a woman on a mission, and when she slips her hands inside his gaping shirt to touch his bare chest, she actually feels the rough groan that rumbles through him. 

His own hands slipping underneath her top to stroke her back, he dips his head, his beard scraping lightly against her throat. “Why would I do that, Swan, when I suspect you quite _enjoy_ my poetic way of speaking?”

The way he says _enjoy_ is positively obscene, and she’s beginning to think that pushing him onto the nearest couch and climbing on top of him is the best way to go, multiple boudoirs be damned.  Goosebumps rise up _everywhere_ in the wake of his touch, the scrape of his stubble on her skin making her nipples draw up tight and hard against the thin silk of her pyjama top.   _Jesus._  Rising up on her toes again, she puts her mouth to his ear, tugging at his earlobe with her teeth until she feels him shudder. “I have condoms in _my_ room.”

Killian slides his arm around her waist, his breath warm against her ear. “So do I, darling, but I seem to recall that _your_ bed has duckling sheets.”  Before she realises what he's about to do, he scoops her up as though she weighs less than nothing, swinging her into his arm's bridal style. 

She clutches at his shoulders, laughing warring with embarrassment. “Seriously?”

“A man never gets a second chance to make a good first impression, darling.” He carefully manoeuvres them through her bedroom doorway, then deposits her on her bed with a flourish. His chest rises and falls as he puts his hands on his hips, letting his gaze rake over her from head to toe, making her squirm with anticipation. “Now that I know you'll remember every single moment, I'm putting my best foot forward.”

Sitting up, she grabs his arm and pulls him onto the bed, his laughter warm against her throat as they tumble backwards. “You're an idiot,” she tells him, giving into the long-supressed urge to run her hand through his dark hair. He stretches out beside her on his side, one leg carelessly hooked over hers, propped up on one elbow, and gives her the grin that's always made her insides melt.

“Ah, but you love me anyway.”

She doesn't have time to be afraid before the words are falling from her lips. “I do.”

He looks shocked.

She knows the feeling.

She stares at him, feeling the ridiculous urge to laugh bubbling up in her chest. “Holy _shit_.”

“Careful there, Swan.”  His grin is _beyond_ smug. “You might have me thinking that you actually like me.”

She buries her hands in his hair again, bringing his face closer to hers. “I hate you sometimes.”

“I know.”

He’s still grinning when he kisses her.

Then again, so is she.

Stretched out on her bed, the only light coming from the hallway through the open door, they kiss until she’s completely lost track of time and her pulse seems to be thrumming through her very skin.  He kisses her ten different ways, soft and sweet, deep and dirty, slow and lazy, his hands deliberately teasing.  While she’s indulging herself in a thorough exploration of his chest and stomach, his fingertips brush _just_ below her breasts, then _almost but not quite_ high enough along the inside curve of her thigh. 

In other words, she’s turned on and frustrated in equal measure, and she’s not sure how much more of this she can take. “This is _not_ the time to be a gentleman, Jones.”

The wicked smile he gives her should be an indictable offence, she thinks. “In that case-”

Rolling her onto her back, he presses his hips firmly against hers, making her suck in a sharp breath.  She wraps her legs around him, pulling her closer, and she’s not sure who swears the loudest as the heavy thrust of his erection presses against her, right where she’s tight and aching and _holy fuck_ she needs to get those clothes off him yesterday.

Killian seems to be on the same page, because he rests his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her lips.  “I’m all for the notion of _boots and all_ , Swan, but perhaps I should-”

She laughs, feeling giddy and half-drunk on him and them and _this_ , her hands clumsy as she starts tugging his unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat over his shoulders.  “Right. Get your kit off, _mate_.”

His bright blue eyes widen in delight at her terrible attempt at a cockney accent. “You’re quite the cunning linguist, aren’t you, darling?” he murmurs, that damned left eyebrow dancing, then he climbs off the bed before she can pinch him somewhere interesting for making such a ridiculous pun when she’s barely capable of stringing two thoughts together. 

He sheds his boots and most of his clothes so expertly that she makes a mental note to ask later if he’d ever done anything embarrassing to earn extra cash during college, then she can’t think of anything except the fact that he’s down to his underwear and his boxer shorts are sitting low on his hips and he’s looking at her almost shyly, as if he’s waiting for her approval.

She couldn’t pretend to be unimpressed if her life depended on it and, from the smile tugging at the corner of his wide mouth, he knows it.  Shimmying up the bed, she reaches for the top button of her pyjama and his gaze narrows.  “Not so fast, love.”

Taking a page out of his playbook, she lets the tip of her tongue tease the corner of her lips. “Well, _someone_ has to do it-”

He’s kneeling over her, his hand curling around hers before her fingers touch a single button.  “If I may have the honour?”

He spends the next few minutes (maybe it’s a freaking hour, she seriously doesn’t know anymore) very deliberately _not_ undoing her buttons.  Instead he sets about driving her out of her mind, shamelessly using the thin silk of her pyjamas as an accomplice.  A light brush of his fingertips between her legs while he traces her collarbone with his lips, his palm grazing her breast as if by accident (she knows damned well it’s not) as he casually slides his thigh against hers.  Finally, feeling as though she’s about to split her skin, she slips her hand between them, pressing her palm firmly against the thick ridge of his erection. 

“Fuck _me_.” He bites off the words on a harsh gasp, and she grins, tracing the shape of him through his boxers until his eyes are closed and his hand is flexing on her hip. “Emma, _please_ -”

“Emma please what?”  She shifts, curling one leg around him as she slips her hand into the waistband of his boxers, her fingertips skimming his straining erection, all smooth, hot skin and rigid need.  “Please stop?”  When she dances her thumb in a teasing circle, he arches into her touch, filling her palm in a way that has her belly clenching.  “Please make me a cup of tea?”

He makes an unintelligible sound under his breath, then his long fingers are flicking open the buttons of her pyjama top, pushing the silken material aside until her breasts are bare under his hands and his hot blue gaze.  “Please stop trying to kill me before I’ve even had the chance to see you naked, love,” he mutters thickly, then he bows his head to her breasts to torment her with his tongue and his teeth, and she knows she couldn’t think of a teasing comeback if her life depended on it.

She does, however, manage to pull her pyjama bottoms down over her hips and thighs and clumsily kick them away, then dig her thumbs into the waistband of Killian’s boxers with obvious intent.  As comebacks go, she thinks as she watches his eyes darken and hears his sharp intake of breath, it seems like a damned good one.

 

~*~

 

 

She’s glorious. _Beyond_ glorious, in fact, and if he were capable of thinking clearly at this point in time, he might be able to come up with several other superlatives to properly describe the sight that is Emma Swan lying naked in his arms, her creamy skin flushed with desire, her green eyes glazed over with the same hunger that’s got him harder than recent (and ancient as well, he can’t deny it) history can recall.

(It appears that almost a decade of foreplay can have quite the effect on a man.)

All those lazy imaginings and vivid scenarios he’s concocted in the dead of the night and in the bright lights of their bathroom as he found relief from the abject _longing_ in his own hand - none of them come even close to the reality of the feel of her skin against his, the smell of her filling his senses, the sound of her pleasure as he touches her. 

Her hands are clever and sure, stroking and teasing until his eyes are almost rolling back in his head.  When she pushes him onto his back and straddles his hips, the slick heat between her legs trapping his cock against his belly, he almost sees stars. 

He’s not sure he’s going to survive actually being inside her, but he’s willing to take that chance.

Her breasts sway enticingly close to his face as she retrieves a condom from the top drawer of her bedside table, and he doesn’t bother resisting the urge to cup the soft weight of them, teasing the rosy nipples into tight peaks with his thumbs until she breathes out a shaky sigh, her fingers convulsing around the small foil packet she’s holding.  “Killian-”

“Killian what?” He grips her thighs, gently urging her into a slow rhythm that has their bodies sliding against each other, a sleek dance of flesh and heat that has her throwing back her head, her body arching like a bow.  “Killian, stop doing _this_?”

“Fuck _you,_ Jones.” The foil condom packet falls to the bed as she digs her fingernails into his hips, her retort little more than a breathless curse. 

Feeling more than a little out of breath himself, he grins as he splays his hand flat on her belly, his thumb dipping into the tender hollow between her legs. “Not yet, love.”  The sound she makes when he finds exactly the right spot sends what little blood he has left shooting straight to his cock.  She rocks against him, riding him until he’s gripping her hip so tightly he’s afraid he’ll leave bruises, her movements becoming more and more urgent until he feels a tremor ripple through her thighs. 

“Oh, _God_.”

Her eyes fly open, her expression almost pleading, then she leans down to kiss him, her mouth hot, her teeth nipping hard enough to make his bottom lip sting, then she’s arching against him, grinding helplessly against his cock and his hand.

(She says his name when she comes.)

He gathers her against his chest as she slumps into his arms, her breathing harsh and quick, her body still trembling as she buries her face against his chest.  “Would it be too much of a cliché to say that was worth the wait?”

He grins.  Raw lust is burning through his blood, his aching cock faintly pulsing with the need of her, yet he has the ridiculous thought that if this moment was all she wanted, he’d be content with that.  “You alright there, Swan?”

Lifting her head, she gives him a sinful smile, shifting against him in a way that has his heart in his mouth.  “I _could_ be better.”

He’s never torn open a condom packet faster in his life.

 

~*~

 

By the time he finally - _finally -_ sinks into her, she’s almost clawing at his shoulders.  She’d be embarrassed if the feel of him inside her wasn’t making her whole body clench with pleasure.  He says her name in a raw guttural whisper, then he moves against her again, filling her in a way that has her digging her fingernails into his biceps. 

(She vaguely resents having to use a condom.  She trusts Killian implicitly and she’s on the pill, but Walsh could have lied to her about any number of things, and she’s not prepared to take any chances.

Rolling it on with a deliberately slow motion until Killian’s jaw had clenched had been damned fun, though.  There’s a silver lining in everything, she guesses.)

When he’s finally buried inside her, he presses his forehead against hers, his elbows on either side of her head.  “What was that about it being worth the wait, love?”

Sliding her hands down his sweat-slicked back, she grips his ass, pulling him into her, biting at his shoulder as he thrusts deep and hard.  “You tell me.”

Time stretches and blurs as they move together.  He kisses her as if she’s the most precious thing in his world, all the while doing unspeakably filthy things to her body, and the combination has her panting, teetering on the edge between anticipation and pleasure. The scent of his aftershave is sharp and spicy in her nose, the salt of his skin tangy beneath her tongue as the thick push and drag of his cock inside her makes everything tighten and grow hot, pulse points pounding in her ears, the tips of her breasts, between her legs. 

The struggle to keep it together is the most erotic battle she’s ever fought, and when the nerve-endings begin firing, first in her feet then streaking up the backs of her legs, she’s never been happier to lose a fight.  The sensation blooms into a pulsing release, pulling everything taut and heavy, then sensation flutters through her belly and groin, her whole body arching beneath his, needing more, needing him to push her through it.

He does.  He kisses her, his hands tight on her hips, fucking her in a slow, steady rhythm that has her writhing, a sob caught in her throat, her fingers digging into his biceps for the second time in an embarrassingly short space of time.

When she’s quietened, her chest still heaving, he bends to kiss her mouth softly, his hips moving almost imperceptibly against hers.  “Bloody hell, love.  If I’d known you’d make such magnificent sounds in the throes of passion, I would have been tempted to bend you over the kitchen counter and take you long ago.”

She smiles at him, feeling deliciously sated, then runs her hand down his chest and belly to where their bodies are joined, sliding her fingers around the base of his cock.  “Are you saying that you _weren’t_ tempted?”

“Of course not.”  He closes his eyes, his hips rocking into hers, the hard heat of him pushing deeper into her tender flesh. “Bloody torture it was, every single day.”

Reaching up, she winds her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers for a greedy kiss, biting at his bottom lip, her tongue curling around his. When it’s over, she knows she wants to make him fall apart, just as he did to her. “Did you want to fuck me that day in the bathroom?” 

Opening his eyes, he stares at her with an intensity that makes her mouth go dry. “Yes.”

“Want to hear a secret?”

He grows still, almost watchful.  “Yes.”

She lifts her hips, taking him deeper, and his rough groan is music to her ears. “I wanted it, too.”

She’s suddenly pressed flat into the mattress, her hands pinned on either side of her head.  He’s moving above her and into her, every urgent thrust accompanied by a softly spoken and politely obscene description of places he’s imagined fucking her, both inside the apartment and out of it.  Her skin is flaming, her face hot, the wiry hair on his chest rasping against her nipples every time he moves over her, and she has no idea how it’s even possible but she’s coming again, a quick and dirty little orgasm that leaves her speechless and clutching at him. 

This time, he comes with her.

His face a picture of agonised delight, his teeth flash white against his beard as he grits out her name, his hands releasing hers to grip her hips, holding her still as he thrusts into her again and again, his cock finally pulsing thickly inside her. 

“Emma.  Oh, _Emma._ ”

This time, she cradles him in her arms, combing her fingers through his damp hair.  She kisses his temple, tastes the frantic beating of his pulse beneath his skin, and smiles.  “Worth the wait?”

“Don’t quote me,” he says an endless moment later, one hand coming up to lazily cup her bare breast, “but I might have even waited _another_ ten years.”

She tugs at his hair (she’s noticed that he seems to enjoy that, and looks forward to confirming this theory) to make him lift his head, wanting to see his face.  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

His slow smile sets her pulse aflutter, even though she can barely move a muscle.  “So am I, Swan.”

 

~*~

 

At two a.m., she pulls on a long t-shirt and he finds his boxers before they head to the kitchen, where he makes her a fresh mug of hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and cinnamon.  She manages to drink half of it before she’s sitting on the kitchen counter, her ankles locked at the small of his back, her head falling backwards as he fucks her slowly, almost lazily, pushing her higher and higher until she tumbles over the edge.

A moment later, he buries his face against her shoulder when he comes, mouthing her name.  She hears the word _love_ breathed against her skin, and she closes her eyes, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. 

She makes him try the hot chocolate (it’s still warm, which says something about how easily they seem to be able to wreck each other) and when she kisses him, he tastes of cocoa and cinnamon. 

He brushes her tangled hair back from her face, his eyes glowing. “Shall we go to bed, love?”

She grins.  “Your boudoir or mine?”

He helps her down from the kitchen counter, then turns away to deal with the condom.  It makes her smile, the way he turns his back, as if he doesn’t want to offend her delicate sensibilities after he’s just fucked her on a counter top.  “Lady’s choice,” he says over his shoulder, and her smile grows.

“I’ve always wanted to try that big bed of yours.”

He turns back to her, his dark eyebrows shooting up. “Have you now?”  He offers her his arm, which is pretty damned ridiculous, giving that they’re both half-naked.  “Well, today’s your lucky day.”

She feels as though her smile just might split her face in two.  “I know.”

He looks at her as though she’s just handed him a winning lottery ticket, rubbing the back of his neck in a quick, nervous motion.  “I’m going to take you to bed now, Swan, before I can say anything stupid to ruin this absolutely perfect moment.”

“Good idea.”  She pinches his side, finding exactly the same spot where she’d pinched him the afternoon she’d walked in on him in the bathroom.  “I mean, knowing you, there’s no telling how badly you could mess things between here and your bedroom door – _hey!_ ”

For the second time tonight, he’s swept her off her feet, only this time she’s over his shoulder.  Breathless with laughter, she makes a grab for his muscled ass.  “Are you kidding me with this?”

“Time for bed, Swan.”  He runs his hands up the backs of her thighs, cupping and teasing, and she swallows hard.  “To sleep, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmurs, closing her eyes.  She’s exhausted, and right now the thought of doing anything other than sleeping is inconceivable.  Then again, she thinks as he gently eases her to the ground and presses her back against his closed bedroom door, his mouth intoxicatingly persuasive on hers, she’s been known to be wrong before.

She’s wrong this time, too.

She has no idea what time it is when they finally fall asleep, but the last thing she remembers is the comforting weight of his arm draped over her hip and the sound of the dawn chorus chirping in the tree outside his bedroom window.

 

~*~

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

~*~

 

He wakes to an elbow in his ribs, a nose full of blonde hair and the smell of Emma Swan on his skin. 

It’s a good start to his morning under any circumstances, but the fact that he’s not dreaming officially makes it the best Friday morning he’s had in a very long time. Actually, he thinks as Emma shifts in her sleep beside him and burrows deeper beneath the bed clothes, it’s quite possibly the best morning ever. 

He carefully reaches for the phone on his bedside table, not wanting to disturb her. It’s only eight o’clock, which is far too early to be awake on _any_ day he doesn’t have to go into the office, let alone a momentous occasion such as the morning after he’d discovered Emma Swan loved him.

Closing his eyes, he wills himself to go back to sleep, but it’s impossible.  The sound of her soft breathing seems to keep time with his own heartbeat, and his hands are practically tingling with the urge to slide beneath the covers and explore all that deliciously warm, bare skin.

 _Get a grip, mate,_ he tells himself sternly. She’s been camped out in a hotel room for the past week, and he suspects she was sleep deprived even before the business with Walsh occurred.  And then there are their _own_ late night shenanigans to consider, he thinks, shifting his rock hard erection away from the swell of her bare arse, remembering those very shenanigans with great relish.

_Bloody hell._

He rubs his hand over his eyes.  As he sees it, he has two options here.  He can roll her onto her back and wake her in a rather uncouth (but undoubtedly satisfying) fashion after she’s only had a few hours sleep, or he can be a gentleman and take this time to visit the bathroom and perhaps power up the espresso machine for when they eventually emerge from his room.

(He decides to be a gentleman. 

There are times when he surprises even himself.)

Tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he pads softly from his room on bare feet. The central heating in their apartment has always been top notch, but right now he doubts he’d notice if his toes developed frostbite and dropped off.  Every muscle he owns seems to be aching pleasantly, and the bathroom mirror tells him that not only is he sporting a very smug grin and the most tragic case of sex hair he’s seen in a good while, but also several blush-red bite marks on his throat and chest and - _oh, how could he possibly forget_ , he thinks as he lifts his t-shirt _-_ stomach.

Running his damp hands through his hair helps somewhat, but he suspects nothing will wipe the grin from his face.

She _loves_ him.

In the kitchen, he fills the water reservoir of the espresso machine and checks on the existence of milk in the refrigerator in record time, then makes his way back to his room.  In the doorway, he pauses to watch as Emma stretches her arms above her head, blinking slowly as she takes in her surroundings, given him the chance to take in _her,_ all tousled hair and kiss-reddened lips. 

Before he can do more than put one foot into his bedroom, though, she sits upright with a start, clutching the top of his duvet to her bare breasts.  “Killian, what the _hell_?”

He walks towards the bed, hoping he hasn’t committed some post-coital faux pas in her book by not being there when she woke. “What’s wrong, love?”

“Why am I in your bed?”   Her eyes widen as she tightens her grip on the duvet, then narrow in a glare that has him almost taking a step backwards. “And why the _fuck_ am I naked?”

Bamboozled by both his own lack of sleep and a sudden, miserable sense of déjà vu, he can only stare at her, open-mouthed.  “Uh-”

She glowers up at him for precisely three extremely long and unpleasant seconds, then grins. “God, you’re easy.”

“Bloody hell.”  Striding to the bed, he pulls back the covers with a flourish, eliciting a charming shriek of protest as the cool air hits her bare skin.  “You’ll pay for that, wench.”

The smile she gives him is positively sinful.  “I sure hope so.” 

His planned retort dies on the tip of his tongue as she curls her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls him towards her.  His knees hit the bed as her right hand dips between his legs, and he’s rather relieved he’s not standing, given the sudden lack of blood supply to his brain stem.  “I thought I’d let you sleep a while longer-” he manages to say, then he’s flat on his back and Emma’s thighs are clamped around his hips as she looks down at him with a smug grin that rivals his own.

(That he notices the timbre of her smile while her bare breasts are swaying enticingly before him is a great feat of willpower, he feels.)

“Well, I appreciate the thought,” she murmurs as she scratches her fingernails lightly down his stomach beneath his t-shirt, “but I’d rather make up for lost time if that’s okay with you.”

She’s barely touched him, but his whole body is already humming with anticipation. “Far be it from me to deny a lady her first wish for the day.”

She smirks, running her hands up his arms and pinning his wrists to the pillow on either side of his head, and he suddenly fears he might just embarrass himself on the spot.   Grinding lazily into him, she leans down and presses her forehead against his, her nipples brushing against his thin t-shirt.  “Even if her first wish is to take a shower?”

 _Well,_ he thinks, _it’s official._ She’s trying to kill him. 

“I’m a flexible man, Swan.”

Lifting her head, she flashes him a smile, her cheeks colouring in a blush despite the fact she’s as naked as the day she was born and straddling him in quite an indecent fashion.  “So I noticed last night.”

He grins, tugging his hands out of her grip to run them up her thighs before cupping her lovely breasts, enjoying the way she arches into his touch, her teeth white against her bottom lip. “Don’t forget this morning.”

Another coy smile, another wriggle of her hips against his, another shockwave of arousal shooting straight to his cock.  “As if I could.”

If he survives this morning, he decides, he’s going to start going to the gym again, because he’s not certain his heart should be racing quite so fast. “Are you always this much of a temptress, love?”

Her hands glide further under his t-shirt, her blunt thumbnails scrap over his nipples. “Trust me, I’ll be even worse after I’ve had a hot shower.”

Only the thought of that hot shower and her skin against his, slippery and wet, stops him from taking this particular tussle to its natural conclusion.  “In that case, I’m all yours.”

She looks at him, his teasing words seeming to hang in the air between them, then she smiles.  “I noticed _that_ last night, too.”

They untangle themselves clumsily, laughing as her foot gets caught in the duvet, then he wraps his favourite robe around her.  “Can’t have you catching a chill on the long journey, Swan,” he tells her, and the warmth of her smile makes him feel as though he could float to the bloody bathroom.

“Give me five minutes.”

Running his hand down her back to cup one shapely arse cheek (he doesn’t remember this robe ever feeling quite so good when _he_ wears it), he presses a kiss to her temple.  “I’ll check the coffee bean supply.”

He watches her saunter towards the smaller bathroom attached to the main bedroom (he’s fairly certain she’s swinging her hips like that on purpose) then gives himself a mental shake.  Morphing from housemates into lovers is proving to be quite the education.  On one hand, he can still make her blush with a teasing quip.  On the other, she’s just matter-of-factly asked him to excuse her for a private bathroom break before they have sex in their shared shower stall.

He grins, deciding he’ll check the coffee bean status later. Right now, he might just go and work up a little welcoming steam.

 

~*~

 

She’s being an idiot, she knows that, but this is what she does when she’s feeling overwhelmed. She shuts herself in a bathroom, takes ten deep breaths, then reminds herself there’s nothing in this world that she can’t handle.

She’s not panicking over having slept with Killian, not really.  She just really needed to pee, then maybe swipe some of Mary Margaret’s spearmint mouthwash before she even _thinks_ about French kissing anyone at eight in the morning.

Well, she thinks as she runs her hands through her crazy bed hair, maybe she _does_ need a few minutes to come to terms with the shift in their relationship, but that’s normal, right?  Even though Killian’s literally seen her at her worst many times over the last decade, it’s perfectly normal to be hiding out in the second bathroom, gargling mouthwash and splashing water on her sleep-puffy eyes. 

All she can say in her defence is that she’s only human.

A moment later, she finds the door to the main bathroom open, steam already hanging in the air, along with the spicy scent of Killian’s body wash.

Oh, and he’s _singing._

She listens for a moment, then rolls her eyes, grinning.  Over the years, she’s heard him sing any number of times (in the bathroom, while he’s driving, even while they’re throwing together a meal in the kitchen) but this is different.  Right now, he’s singing a song she remembers playing last night when she’d been telling him about Walsh.  Her hands going to the sash of her borrowed robe, she waltzes into the bathroom.  “Tainted Love? Really?”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of Soft Cell, Swan,” he informs her loftily as she pulls her hair back into a hasty ponytail. “Although I fundamentally object to their works being included in a program dedicated to so-called one hit wonders. When I was a lad, they had several songs in the UK top ten.”

Grinning, she tries the switch for the exhaust fan, just in case, and isn’t surprised to see it still hasn’t been fixed. “Are you done?”

“I could go on for hours about the myopic viewpoint of American television programming, darling, as you well know.” The glass of the shower stall is completely fogged up, but she doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s smirking, damn him.  “But you’re most welcome to come in here and shut me up, love.”

Shrugging out of the robe, she drapes it carelessly over the nearest towel rack.  “If I’d known it was _that_ easy to get you to shut up, I might have done this a long time ago.”   She pulls open the glass shower door, and just like that, feels as though she’s had the wind knocked out of her. 

She was expecting him to be naked. 

She was expecting him to be wet and soapy.

She –

Actually, she’s not sure what she was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t to feel like a blushing virgin at the sight of him. 

“You alright there, Swan?”

She manages to tear her gaze away from, well, _everything,_ and meet his eyes, her pulse accelerating at the dark hunger glowing in them.  Given the fact that they’ve spent the better part of the night fucking each other into quivering oblivion, she decides his ego doesn’t need to be stroked than it already has. “It’s been a while since I shared a shower with anyone, that’s all.”

“Just when I think your last boyfriend couldn’t be any more of a complete git, I discover that he can.”  Reaching out, he offers her his hand, as though he’s assisting her to climb into a royal coach rather than a water slicked shower stall.  “May I have the honour?”

“You may.” She takes his hand and steps inside the stall, pulling the glass door shut behind her.  “You said my _last_ boyfriend.”

He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and her belly clenches at the feel of his skin on hers, slippery and warm.  “What of it?”

Somehow he’s managed to get both the water temperature and the angle of the nozzle exactly right (nothing worse than a face full of tepid water when you’re trying to seduce someone), and she smiles as she leans into him, pushing him back against the tiled wall of the shower.  “Well, the phrase does seem to imply that I have a _current_ boyfriend.”

“As I said earlier, love, I’m all yours.” His gaze is steady, those unbelievably blue eyes burning into hers as though he’s trying to see into the far corners of her darkest secrets.  “Only if you’ll have me, of course.”

_Oh, God._

It’s way too early for this kind of thing, she thinks dazedly, then she’s kissing him, her arms winding around his neck, and she knows she’s just given him as good an answer as any.  His mouth tastes of her favourite toothpaste and is as warm and slick as the hands that slide down her back to grip her ass, hauling her against him.  When the thick ridge of his erection presses into her belly, she makes a choked sound against his mouth, and feels his lips curve into a smile.  “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

“Yes.” She kisses his jaw, then his throat, her own hands busily exploring the hollows beneath his hipbones, breathing out her answer against his skin. “ _Yes._ ”

The next fifteen minutes forever change her view on the slippery logistics of shower sex.  She’d been telling the truth about it being a long time since she shared a shower with anyone.  Even if she’d been lying, she doubts that it would have compared to what she’s feeling right now.  Warm water sluices over her shoulders and back as she bites back a moan, Killian’s long fingers dipping between her legs, slippery with bodywash and her own frantic need for him.  She bites at his mouth, sliding her tongue between his lips as she starts to lazily stroke her hand up and down the slippery length of his erection.  He jerks at her touch, but the hand between her legs doesn’t falter, his fingers curling inside her in a relentless rhythm that has her rising up on her toes, panting open-mouthed against his throat.

“Fuck. That feels so good. Oh, _fuck-_ ”

His voice is rough and wicked in her ear, his cock pulsing in her hand.  “My thoughts exactly, Swan.”

She falls first, her legs shaking as the tight knot of tension unravels in a hot rush of release, gasping at the feel of his fingers thrusting inside her.  After a long moment spent with her head buried against his shoulder, she kisses his throat, then sets herself the pleasurable task of finding out how hard she can make him come with just her hand. 

As it turns out, pretty damned hard.

She kisses the ragged groan from his lips (he says her name, again and again) his flesh slick and hot in her hand as he shudders into her touch. When it’s over, he slumps back against the tiled wall, wrapping his arms around her.  He kisses her cheek, then her shoulder, then the crook of her neck, the scrape of his beard against her wet skin sending goosebumps skittering, despite the steam. His breathing is as laboured as hers, but his words are crystal clear.

“That was bloody brilliant.”

Running her hands through his wet hair, she can’t help the smile that beams across her face.  “I know, right?”

 

~*~

 

“That’s not the only thing you’re having for breakfast, surely?”

Emma pauses in her elegant destruction of the bear claw in her hand long enough to wave the offending pastry at him, and he briefly entertains the notion of bending down and licking the smudge of sugar clinging to her bottom lip.  “Hey, you bought them. You can’t blame me for eating them.”

He slides her coffee in front of her, wondering how she’d react if he offered to cook her something more substantial.  He’s making a conscious effort not to smother her, but good Lord, that donut looks appalling. Of course, he’s hardly one to talk, considering his breakfast consisted of toast slathered with whiskey infused marmalade. “I was trying to make amends, darling, not put you in a sugar coma before midday.”

Picking up her coffee mug, she takes a long, clearly appreciative sip, then bats her eyelashes at him.  “Tell you what. If I’m still conscious tonight, you can make me something ridiculously healthy for dinner.”

Dropping into the chair opposite her, he stretches out his legs beneath the table until his calf is pressed against hers. “And here I thought you might like to actually leave the apartment and go somewhere nice for dinner.”

“I went somewhere nice for dinner last night. “She wrinkles her nose as she rubs her leg lazily against his.  “Look how well that turned out.”

He grins at her, feeling ludicrously giddy.  “Worked out rather well for _me_ , I must say.”

She aims a gentle kick at his ankle with the toe of her slipper, the corners of her mouth turning downward slightly.  “You know what I mean.”

He hesitates to denigrate her choice in men (he is, after all, finally one of those choices) but he can’t bear to see her even the slightest bit despondent over that oxygen thief of an ex-lover.  “I do, and the dire outcome of your dinner date last night had nothing to do with the venue or the quality of the food on offer.”  Reaching out, he gives into temptation and brushes the errant smudge of sugar from her bottom lip with his thumb.  “More importantly, love, it had nothing to do with _you_.”

Something akin to embarrassment flashes across her face.  “Aren’t we the silver-tongued devil this morning?”

Pushing aside his coffee mug, he half-rises from his seat, leaning across the table to kiss her. Her lips part softly beneath his, her tongue flavoured with coffee and sugary pastry.  He can definitely bear the taste of those wretched donuts when delivered in such a delightful fashion, he thinks, then he lifts his head.  “What can I say, love?  You’ve always inspired me to verbosity.”

“Is that so?”  She looks pleasantly flustered, twin spots of colour staining her high cheekbones as she licks her lips, as if tasting marmalade. “And what is it about me that inspires you, exactly?”

“Impossible to narrow it down, I’m afraid.” He cups her chin in his hand, teasing its tiny dimple with his thumb.  (He’d kissed her there last night, and he knows the sight of it will forever make him smile.)   “I’m a fan of every part of you, Swan.”

Turning her head, she kisses the swell of his thumb, her lips warm against his skin.  “You know what I’d like to do today?”

Her words are innocent of even the tiniest hint of innuendo, but his body still snaps to attention. “I’m all ears.”

She grins, her eyes alight with contentment. “Nothing.”

His chest tightens.  He can’t remember the last time he saw her smile like that at _anyone_ , let alone at his good self.  “Then nothing is exactly what we shall do.”

As it turns out, doing nothing Emma Swan-style means sprawling on the couch and watching old movies until she falls asleep in the circle of his arm, her cheek against his chest.  He can’t think of a better way to avoid the retail madness taking place in the outside world, to be honest.  

He carefully shifts position until he’s more comfortable, then gathers her close enough to bury his nose in the fragrant tumble of her hair.  She’d dressed in those bloody silk pyjamas after their shower this morning, and the thin fabric does nothing to hide the fact she’d decided underwear was superfluous.   Sighing softly, he contents himself with occasionally brushing his fingertips down her arm while he watches Gregory Peck stride masterfully about the television screen. 

She sleeps for almost an hour and, when she wakes, there is no trace of awkwardness in the smile she gives him.  Indeed, he barely has time to return the smile before she’s slipped her hand beneath his button-down shirt to etch languid patterns on his stomach.  “What are we watching?”

His breath catches in his throat as her roaming fingertips dance over the button fly of his jeans.  “Does it matter?”

She curls her other hand around the nape of his neck, bringing his face down to hers. “Nope.”

They kiss for a long time, hands sliding beneath clothing to touch and tease, his thigh pressed hard between her legs (God, he can feel the heat of her through his jeans), her body soft and pliant against his.  When he mouths at her breast through the silk of her pyjama top, she makes a sound that sends a shock of pure lust rippling through him.  He closes his teeth over the stiff rise of her nipple and she arches beneath him, her thighs falling open in obvious invitation.  As he rocks against her with short, heavy thrusts of his hips, her kisses become fiercer, almost challenging, and he wants her more than he could ever articulate, even in the plainest of English.

This goes on for several more torturous moments and, through the haze of desire, he realises he’s never truly realised the full erotic potential of making love with one’s clothes still on.  Still, there’s a lot to be said for bare skin, and when he unbuttons her pyjama shirt and kisses a path across the valley between her breasts, it seems Emma is of the same opinion. 

Pulling at the waistband of his jeans, she gives him a faintly glazed smile.  “Seriously, I don’t know why you bothered putting so many layers on this morning.”  She flicks opens the top three buttons of his fly, then slips her hand inside his jeans, quickly discovering she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t bothered donning underwear this morning.  “I stand corrected.”  He sucks in a sharp breath as she cups him in her hand, the deft stroking of her thumb already driving him mad, the tip of her pink tongue making a fleeting appearance at the corner of what can only be described as a salacious smile.  “I guess you left off a few layers after all.”

Silently counting to ten, he skims his palm over her hip, then up her side (she twitches at that, and he files away the word _ticklish_ for further consideration) until he’s cupping the warm weight of her breast.  “I’m not just a pretty face, Swan.”

“Smart enough to think ahead and have a condom in the pocket of those jeans?”

“Alas, no.”  He pushes himself off her (his body may never forgive him), then holds out his hand to her.  “Shall we retire to a bedroom?”

She shakes her head, stretching out on the couch with a faintly obscene arch of her back.  “Here’s good.”

Ten steps from the couch to his bedroom nightstand, seven steps back to her side.  He may have ramped up his speed a little at the end there, he suspects.  Even so, he almost misses the sight of Emma shimmying out of her pyjamas and tossing them onto the coffee table.  “Bloody hell, woman.”  He pulls his shirt up and over his head, slinging it to join her small pile of clothing.  “ _Temptress_ doesn’t even begin to describe _this_ kind of behaviour.”

She flashes him a teasingly injured glance from beneath dark lashes.  “If you want me to stop-”

Dropping the condom packet onto the coffee table, he sinks to his knees beside the couch, circling her ankles with his fingers.  “Scoot over here, love.”

He sees her pale throat work as she swallows hard.  “Why?”

In answer, he slips his hands beneath her arse, effortlessly pulling her to sit on the edge of the couch. “You’ll see.”

Thirty seconds later, he’s kissing a teasing path up her inner thigh, then up her belly, then down around, biting and licking her soft skin until he feels the impatient press of her fingernails against his scalp. “Get on with it, Jones.”

“Hmm.” He brushes his palm over the swell of her mons pubis, knowing he’s torturing them both. “Actually, I’m not sure you could handle it, Swan.”

“Pretty sure I can.”

He chuckles at the thready catch in her voice, deliberately scraping his whiskered chin in a slow, downward trail from her navel until he can feel the tension humming through her.  When he finally puts his mouth on her, dipping his tongue into the salty sweet heat between her legs, her sharp gasp of pleasure is music to his ears. 

She is glorious.

He barely notices the hard floorboards beneath his knees.  All he knows is Emma, the taste of her, the feel of her against his tongue.  The sounds she’s making, breathless hitches of air as she lifts her hips, pressing herself against his mouth, her fingers flexing on his scalp.  “Killian, please-”

He closes his eyes, savouring the slippery shape of her on his tongue, the tension growing in her thighs as she struggles to contain the release he can feel building in her.  “You taste marvellous, Swan,” he breaths against her heated flesh, and her hips rise in a silent plea. 

“ _Jesus_. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.”  He slips two fingers inside her, his tongue still coaxing and teasing, and her breathing becomes erratic.  He draws her into his mouth, sucking hard, and it all falls into place.

“Fuck, _Killian-_ ”

(Afterwards, he will find himself remembering the moment she let herself lose control, deciding that while she might be glorious in the flush of desire, she’s truly magnificent when she comes.)

She lies still for a long moment, one arm flung over her face, her breasts delicately heaving as she struggles to catch her breath.  He discreetly wipes his mouth on the back of his hand (they may have had sex several times in the last twenty-four hours, but he’s still learning her likes and dislikes), and grins at the limp gesture she makes with her free hand.  “Come here.”

His jeans are swiftly tossed onto the coffee table, and he doesn’t waste time mucking about with any erotic foreplay nonsense when it comes to condom application.  She shifts on the couch to make room for him, then her legs are wrapped around his hips and he’s sinking into the tight heat of her in a thick rush of potent sensation that has him choking back a groan. 

The rough fabric of the couch cushions rubs against his knees but again, he barely notices. 

All he knows is Emma, the heavy drag of his cock inside her, the teasing brush of her nipples against his chest as they move together, the arch of her throat as she tosses back her head, her eyes screwed tight as her body starts to flutter around him.  

When she says his name like it’s a four-letter word, wrapping her tongue around each syllable on a breathless gasp, he yields to the inevitable, thrusting into her faster and harder, his own release nipping at his heels.  She’s still shuddering beneath him when he comes, a hoarse groan tearing from his throat as he presses himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing madly, the blood roaring in his ears.   

(She might indeed be trying to kill him, but she’s definitely worth the risk.)

He has no idea how long they lie tangled on the couch, his head on her breast, her arms around his shoulders.  Finally, she heaves a sigh that sounds as though it’s been dragged up from her toes, one hand languidly stroking up and down his sweat-dampened back.  “I think I need another shower.”

He grins, rubbing his cheek against the soft swell of her breast.  “I don’t think I have it in me, love.”

She pinches him between the third and fourth rib (in the same damned place as usual, he realises, he’s going to develop quite the bruise in that spot), her quiet laughter stirring his rumpled hair.  “Strictly for washing purposes only."

“Now _that_ I can manage.”  He rolls to one side, giving her room to swing her legs over the side of the couch.  As he does, his gaze falls open the neat pile of splintered wood still sitting on the living room rug.  “And afterwards, I might take the remains of your little table down to the trash.”

Her face flushes in a manner that has nothing to do with the naked tango they’ve just enjoyed on the couch.  “I meant to do that last night.”

He rubs her back gently.  “Of course, if you’d rather set fire to the wreckage then salt the ashes, may I suggest the rooftop terrace?”

She laughs, a lilting sound that warms his heart, the despondency vanishing from her eyes.  “Tempting, but I’m good.”  She scrambles off the couch, giving him an outstanding view of her splendid arse, then gathers up her discarded pyjamas.  She lobs his jeans at him, landing them squarely in his lap, and she flashes him an apologetic grin. “Sorry.”

He looks down at the jeans, then up at her. “If you want me to cover up, love, all you have to do is ask.”

Her grin widens.  “You won’t be able to walk around in the buff when David and Mary Margaret get home, you know.”

After so many years of pretending he doesn’t fancy this woman, allowing himself the simple pleasure of feasting his eyes upon her is quite the milestone.  He lets his gaze skim over her, knowing his appreciation will be plainly evident, then sighs dramatically.  “That’s true, Swan, but the real tragedy is that neither will you.”

Rolling her eyes, she clutches her wadded-up pyjamas to her stomach, which does nothing to hide her charms, either above or below deck.  “Speaking of our housemates, can I ask you something?”

He gives her a beseeching look as he gestures towards her, well, _everything_.  “Far be it from me to spoil the mood, love, but if you require me to string together words in a sensible fashion, perhaps it could wait until after you’re dressed?”

Another eye roll, this time accompanied by a smirk of triumph.  “What was that you said before about not being able to handle it?”

Putting aside his jeans, he gets to his feet and saunters towards her, smiling as her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks.  “Just being a realist, darling, but if you’d prefer to have this conversation while we’re naked as the day we were born, I’m always _up_ for a challenge.”

Her gaze slides lower, just as he knew it would, and the blush that steals across her cheeks makes him want to gather her into his arms and kiss her until they’re both desperate for air.  “Good point.”

“Go enjoy your shower in peace, Swan.  I’ll make myself useful in the kitchen.” He gives into the temptation to gently tap her arse as she turns away, and the glittering promise of retribution in the look she flashes him over her shoulder as she flees towards the bathroom is the stuff of which his dreams have been made for the last decade.

Perhaps he shouldask her to pinch him again, he thinks with a grin as he picks up his clothes and heads towards his bedroom, just to make sure he’s not dreaming.

 

~*~

 

 _Smug bastard_ , Emma thinks with cheerful resentment as she has a lightning-quick shower that’s little more than a ‘splash and dash’ under the hot water.  To be fair, he does have reason to be smug.  She’s already lost track of how many times he’s turned her into a quivering mess, and they haven’t even been together for twenty-four hours.  She’s more than a little tender in several interesting places, but the thought that they have the apartment all to themselves for another three days still makes her pulse race and her belly clench.

Well, she _did_ say she wanted to make up for lost time, she muses.   Maybe she actually should let him feed her something nutritious for dinner tonight.  She has the feeling she’s going to need all the energy she can muster.

She pulls her hair back in a loose ponytail, suspecting she’d be wasting her time on anything more elaborate, then frowns at the vivid bite mark just below her collar bone.  She touches a fingertip to it, remembering how she’d come by it (he’d been buried deep inside her, his mouth hot on her throat and shoulder) and a slow beat of arousal pulses between her legs.  She puts her hands on the edge of the vanity, suddenly feeling more than a little light-headed.  God, how is this even real?  How is _any_ of this real?  

After she’s finally dressed in something other than pyjamas, she finds Killian in the kitchen, he’s made two mugs of hot chocolate and is too busy dubiously studying the box of donuts he brought home the night before to notice her standing in the doorway.

“Are those my apology donuts?”

Startled, he almost fumbles his grip on the box, but recovers quickly, giving an easy smile at her.  “Well, I knew better than to give you flowers, love.”

His casual remark (which she knows isn’t casual at all, because she knows _him_ ) brings Walsh into her thoughts with a dull thud.  “It’s a smart guy who learns from someone else’s mistakes, I guess.”

“Indeed.”   He slides a steaming mug across the counter top towards her.  “Of course, given your last boyfriend’s transgressions, I’d be hard pressed _not_ to learn a lesson or two.”  The dimple in his bearded cheek flashes as he grins at her.  “Or ten.”

She tries to be offended, but she can’t, not when he’s so obviously Team Emma, as Mary Margaret would say.  “You wanna put your muscle where your mouth is and help me take that pile of wood down to the dumpster?”

“Soon, I promise.” He nudges the mug towards her once again.  “I’m determined to see you finish at least one cup of cocoa before it goes cold this weekend.”

She looks at him, thinking of the last hot chocolate he’d made her.  It had been at two o’clock this morning, when she’d only managed a few mouthfuls before he’d kissed her, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her long t-shirt to press his palm between her legs. She’d pretty much forgotten something called chocolate even existed at that point.  “And whose fault is that?”

“Guilty as charged, I suppose.” Grinning, he sheepishly adjusts the button fly of his jeans, then flips open the box of donuts.  “What on earth are those ones with the brown goo on top, do you think?”

She peers into the box, then smiles.  “Salted caramel.”

He raises one dark eyebrow at her. “Ah, the one hipster food trend I can stomach.”

Reaching out one hand, she pulls the box towards her for closer examination. He’d bought the most expensive ones, of course, but it’s the thought of him stopping off on the way home after their fight that makes something tighten deep in her chest. “You know, you didn’t owe me an apology,” she tells him, the words feeling clumsy on her tongue.  “What you said was all true.”

He looks at her steadily, and she sees the flash of guilt in his eyes.  “That may well be, love, but it still doesn’t excuse my harshness.”

She takes a deep breath.  This time yesterday, this conversation would have been beyond the realm of possibility. Now, she’s determined to start with a clean slate, even if that means admitting things she swore blind she’d never admit. “I’ve said some harsh things to you over the years, too.”

Still smiling, he pulls a face, his bright blue eyes widening.  “Don’t I know it?”  His smile fades as he drums the fingers of one hand on the counter top, rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Both are nervous gestures she remembers well from their college poker games, and her heart lurches. “Look, I’d just spent the whole evening thinking that I’d ruined our friendship,” he finally mutters, his gaze locking with hers.  “Even if you threw the box back in my face and tossed the ice cream onto the floor, I had to try to make amends somehow.”  He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, his smile a shadow of its usual self.  “I knew I might be coming home to the unhappy news that you’d agreed to marry Monkey Boy, but the idea of you no longer being my friend was even worse.” 

Emma stares at him. Just like the morning he’d left that ridiculous post-it on her lunch box, she’s suddenly gripped a wave of emotion so strong that she’s moving towards him and kissing him with so much force that he rocks back on his heels. She pulls away before he can return the kiss properly, and she grins at the bewildered look on his face.  “Look at you, being all sentimental.”

Bewilderment turns to indignation, but she sees the amusement dancing in his eyes.  “Are you mocking my pain, Swan?”

“Definitely not.” She plays with the unfastened buttons on his shirt, torn between revealing another of her own secrets and teasing him a little more.  “I mean, I’m the one who stashed a post-it note with a swan on it in my dresser drawer, so, you know.”  Something other than amusement suddenly flickers in his eyes, and she pokes her index finger into a distractingly firm pectoral muscle.  “Don’t tell me you kept that stupid note I left you before I left for New York.”

“Can you keep a secret, love?” He leans forward, brushing his lips against her ear. “It’s in my sock drawer.”

She starts to laugh, thinking she would have put more effort into her terrible drawings if she’d thought he’d keep the damned thing, then stops, something else important registering with her. “Wait a minute.  You bought ice cream too?”

Smiling, he shakes his head. “Oh, for the love of-” He kisses her, pushing her gently back against the kitchen counter, his hips fitting against hers with a precision that has her knees turning to water.  When he finally lifts his head, her hands are twisted in the front of his button down, her breath coming fast.  “Yes, I bought ice cream, too. I was a desperate man.  There’s a whole tub of peanut butter swirl in the freezer, and if you’re a good girl, you can have some after dinner.”

Never in her life has she heard the words _good girl_ sound so suggestive, and she knows that unless she wants to end up naked on the kitchen table, maybe they should take their drinks elsewhere.  Not that it’s an unappealing idea, but she really does want to be able to look Mary Margaret and David in the eye when they get home. “Speaking of salted caramel donuts, I haven’t told you about my New York trip.”

His eyes light up with curiosity.  “After such an intriguing segue, love, I’m afraid I must demand you tell me every single detail at once.”

They end up pulling on their coats and taking their drinks (and yes, the box of donuts) to the roof terrace.  It’s a sunny day, but there’s a definite bite to the air, and she’s glad of the warm mug cradled in her hands.   They drag two chairs to the small wooden table in the area they’ve always thought of as their apartment’s territory, and she proceeds to tell him about her female embezzler and how her downfall came about over a box of salted donuts in a convenience store.   

As usual, he’s an attentive audience, laughing at her sarcastic editorial comments and asking questions when he doesn’t feel she’s giving him quite enough detail to paint the proper picture.  It’s very different from when Walsh used to quiz her about her captures, and a ripple of unease twists through her stomach.  She hadn’t really had time to dwell on everything Kathryn had told her the night before, but now, here in a quiet moment, it comes rushing back to her.  Killian, just as he always does, picks up on her change in mood quickly.

“You alright there, Swan?  You seem vexed.”

She hesitates, then blurts out her fears that Walsh had been pumping her (she holds up her hand to him at this point, telling him not to say a word, and he merely wriggles his dark eyebrows at her) for information about the local criminal underground.  He listens intently, then reaches out to squeeze her hand.  “If that’s what he was doing, love, then it will only contribute to his downfall.”

“How so?”

“Six degrees of separation, darling.”  He rubs his thumb over her knuckles.  “Sooner or later, every tangled web will be traced back to its central point, so to speak, and I can only assume he’d find it very hard to explain why he’s been associating with so many of your former captures.”

She stares at him.  She has spent so much time goofing around with him (not just the last twenty four hours, but always) that sometimes she forgets that he’s scary smart.   Still, old habits die hard, and she can’t resist teasing him. “Should I be worried that what you’re saying makes perfect sense to me?”

Lifting his hand to her face, he touches his fingertip to the end of her nose, making her blink.  He’s done that to her before, she realises, when they’d been grocery shopping and bickering over chocolate biscuits.  “You can pretend you’re not impressed all you like, Swan, but I know different now.”

She laughs, pulling the cardboard box towards her to see if anything inspires her.  “I’m tired of talking about me,” she tells him, eyeing a chocolate glazed donut.  “How are things at the office?”

“Not too shabby, actually.” He tells her about his new secretary (Ariel, she thinks. Good grief.) and a few of his newest cases, with just enough detail to make a good story.  Despite his droll recapping of his clients’ various matrimonial woes, it’s clear that he has nothing against the institution of marriage itself. 

 _Good_ , she finds herself thinking, and is promptly horrified.  She buries her nose in her mug, hoping very hard that he can’t read her expression.  God, where had _that_ come from?

“Tell me, love, what was it that you wanted to ask me?”

 _Saved by the pedantic lawyer,_ she thinks with great relief.  “Okay, here’s the thing.”  She takes a few seconds to steel herself. This honesty business is quite draining, but she’s determined to push through all the crap that’s piled up between them. “David’s been on my back about you.”

He leans one elbow on the table, his chin cupping in his hand, his expression focused.  “Do tell.”

“Somehow he guessed that I, well, that I-”

Grinning, he reaches out and gently tugs at the end of her ponytail. “No need to be embarrassed, Swan, we both know that you’re mad about me.”

She glares at him as best she can as he curls her hair around his fingers.  “What are you, twelve?  Are you going to kick my shins and run away now?”

His grin doesn’t falter. “Look who’s talking, love.”  Putting his hand to his side, he rubs his ribcage.  “Care to see my bruise?”

 _Okay, so she kind of deserved that one,_ she admits reluctantly.  “Well, _anyway_ , he guessed. I told him that he had to keep his mouth shut or I’d disown him, and all he kept saying was that I should talk to you.”  She watches his face carefully, hoping for clues. “Oh, and when I told him that I wasn’t your type, he laughed in my face.”

Kilian nods, looking as though he’s weighing up a witness’ testimony. “Smart man, that Dave.”  He looks at her. “He gave me the same lecture, more or less.”

Her mouth doesn’t fall open, but it’s a close thing. “Seriously?”

“Indeed.”  He gives her a satisfied smile. “Then I got him stinking drunk and gave him the perfect excuse not to go antiquing the next morning.”

She shakes her head, impressed despite herself. “Where the hell was I during all this?”

“In NY, remember?”

Emma blinks.  “Right.”  The days have all seemed to bleed into each other lately, making it hard to keep track. “While we’re dredging up ancient history, I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I had an interesting conversation with MM the night the four of us went out to dinner.”

He sits up a little straighter at that, his gaze suddenly locking with hers. “About?”

“You.”

His lips part, as if he’s about to speak, but she goes on quickly. “She told me that you’d asked her if I was seeing anyone when we first met.”

He looks as though he’s about to deny it, then he shrugs. “That would be correct.”

She can’t help herself. Leaning across the table, she punches him lightly in the bicep. “I guess my question is why didn’t you just ask me out?  And don’t give me that _good form_ crap about me already dating someone, because I _know_ how you operated when we were in college.”

He rubs his arm, his wide mouth pressed into a tight line. “I’d been reliably informed that you were very happy with your man at the time, love. I had no wish to rock the boat, so to speak.” 

He means Neal, of course.  She doesn’t bother telling him that Mary Margaret has always seen the world through rose-coloured glasses, especially when it came to Emma’s relationships.   He might already know bits and pieces about how that particular fairy tale ending imploded, but that’s definitely a story for another day.  “Like you thought I was very happy with Walsh?”

“Indeed.” She huffs out a sigh as she looks at him, and he gives her a sheepish smile. “I admit it, there appears to be a pattern to my misguided sense of chivalry.”

“You think?”  She shakes her head, then pushes the past aside, at least for the moment.  They’ve got ten years’ worth of secrets to disclose, and there’s no rule that says they have to get through them all in one day.  There is one thing she needs to know, though. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

He tilts his head backwards, as if bracing himself. “Fire away.”

“Would you have really moved out?”   She nudges his knee with hers beneath the small table. “If we hadn’t worked things out?”

The question obviously takes him by surprise, but he doesn’t sugar coat his reply. “Yes.”

Despite the fact things are very different between them now, his answer still sends an anxious pang through her.  “But not anymore, right?”

Her voice sounds small and alone (God, she hates that she can still feel this way), but she barely has time to draw another breath before he’s shifted to sit on the edge of his chair, his legs tangling with hers as his hands come up to cup her face. “I’m been waiting for you for a long time, love.”  His mouth is suddenly warm on hers, his lips and tongue gentle as he coaxes a breathless sigh of pleasure from her, then he pulls back, his eyes searching her face. “I’m not going anywhere, trust me.”

Hooking her arm around his neck, she presses her cheek to his, the scent of him filling her senses, the steady rhythm of his breath against her ear more soothing than she would ever have thought possible.  “Good.”

 

~*~

 

In the end, they neither cook nor eat anything particularly nutritious for dinner.  He steps out to pick up a takeout order of Thai food from their usual place, coming home to an apartment filled with softly playing music and Emma putting clean sheets on her bed with the swift proficiency of a hotel chambermaid.   He leans against the frame of her open bedroom door, smiling as he watches her fluff the pillows with a determination that borders on violence.  “Need a hand, love?”

She jumps, then turns to face him, her hand over her heart.  “Damn it, Killian. You have _got_ to stop creeping up on me like that.”

“It’s hardly creeping if I live here, surely.” He grins as he lifts the plastic takeout bag aloft, trying and failing not to stare at the picture she makes in her jeans and soft green sweater. “Nevertheless, will you accept some Pad Thai as an apology?”

Her eyes light up.  “Definitely.”   She tosses the pillow she’s holding onto the bed behind her, then follows him down the hallway towards the kitchen.  “I thought maybe we could eat in here, rather than in front of the television.”

In the kitchen, he discovers that she’s set the small kitchen table for dinner for two, complete with wine glasses and an unopened bottle of his favourite merlot. “Very inviting, Swan. May I ask what’s brought on this wave of domesticity?”

She shrugs, looking almost bashful. “It’s the first time we’ve eaten dinner together since, you know.” As he starts pulling the plastic containers from the takeout bag, she gestures towards the table.  “And you wanted to take me somewhere nice for dinner, so-”

Maybe one day she’ll stop making him feel as though he loves her so much he can barely breathe.  Today is not that day, however. “It looks lovely.”

The dimple at the corner of her lips flashes as she smiles at him, obviously pleased by his reaction. “Not a patch on the holiday table settings that David and Mary Margaret will have been enjoying this weekend. Oh, that reminds me, Mary Margaret texted me while you were out picking up dinner.”   Turning, she pushes aside the usual pile of junk mail on the counter top to come up with her phone.  “She says they’re having a great time, no major family drama as yet and she hopes that we’ve kissed and made up.”  She rolls her eyes at that, but he sees the hint of colour that touches her face.  “They’ll be home by six on Sunday night.”

“Another two days with just each other for company?”  He stands behind her on the pretext of finding a serving spoon in the second drawer down, wrapping his arms around her.  “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.” He feels the chuckle that ripples through her, then the soft sigh as he abandons his search for a utensil and instead cups her breasts in his hands, swallowing hard when he feels her nipples tighten at his touch. 

He closes his eyes.  After so many years of wanting her, _craving_ her, this is almost too much. “ _Emma._ ”

“I know.” She covers his hands with hers, moving them gently over her breasts until her nipples are hard against his palms and he’s stiff with the need of her, his cock pressing into the curve of her arse. Her head falls back onto his shoulder as she presses back against him harder, teasing him with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “I mean, this is crazy, right?”

“I don’t care.” He finds her mouth with his, pinching her nipples gently between his finger and thumb, and she gasps into the kiss, her tongue slipping between his lips to tangle with his, her answer muttered in between unsteady breaths. 

“Neither do I.”

They make it to his room this time, pulling off just enough clothing for him to slide inside her. The thin satin of her bra is cool against his chest, her toes pushing the waistband of his jeans down to his knees.  It’s slower this time, his mouth fused to hers as they move together, every thrust sending a shockwave of sensation hammering through his body, sparking at the base of his spine, his cock full and aching as he presses himself deep inside her again and again.  She bites at his bottom lip, muttering _yes_ and _harder_ in a mantra that has his blood boiling and his hand slipping between their straining bodies to find the slippery heat of her, his thumb pressing and circling until she begins to shudder beneath him, her hips lifting in mute supplication.

“God, I love you.” He mouths the words against her throat as she comes, tasting the violent hammering of her pulse, feeling the quiet sob catch in her throat. 

“I love you too.”

(No matter how many years he will spend alive on this earth, he knows he will never tire of hearing those words from her lips.)

Closing his eyes, he begins to move again, faster and deeper, each stroke setting his skin and flesh alight with desire until the storm takes him, his release pulsing through him in a hot wave of pleasure that steals his voice and his breath, his hips jerking clumsily.

After a long moment, she starts to laugh, a soft snuffling sound, her face buried against his shoulder.  “How many times is that now?”

Rolling onto his side, he strokes his fingertips over the swell of her breasts as he considers the question, enjoying the contrast between warm skin and cool satin. “I’ve lost count, I’m afraid.”

She grins at him, looking thoroughly ravished in a fashion in which he heartily approves. “Maybe we can do a tally over dinner.”

They do.

After dinner, she graciously allows him a portion of her apology ice-cream, as she insists on calling it, then kisses him with peanut butter flavoured lips.  “My bed tonight?”

Despite their amorous activities over the last day and a half, they’ve yet to actually spend the night in her bed, and her faintly shy offer makes his chest tighten. “It would be an honour, love.”

 

~*~

 

She wakes to the sound of an incoming text, but she doesn’t bother checking her phone straight away. The most important person in her life is currently stretched out beside her, snoring softly, after all.  Closing her eyes, she tries to go back to sleep, but it’s no use.  Too many years of working in her chosen field has made it impossible to ignore an incoming message, it seems.  Sitting up, she reaches for the phone on her bedside table, and the bottom instantly falls out of her stomach.

_You might have already deleted me from your address book, but I’m hoping you still recognise my number.  I’m so sorry about Thursday night.  I didn’t mean to shock or embarrass you in public, I just really wanted to surprise you with something I truly believed we both wanted.  My fault completely.  I guess I’ve been so busy with work that I missed some really important things, like the fact that you weren’t happy.  I’m more sorry than I can say, and I’d like very much if we could remain friends.  I’d also like very much to see you, if only to give you the things you left at my place and to apologise in person.  If you’re free for brunch on Sunday morning, it would mean an awful lot to me to be able to say goodbye properly.  Walsh xo_

A swell of anger – the kind she hasn’t felt in _years_ – rises up inside her. She has no idea how long she spends glaring at that fucking _xo_ before Killian wakes, and she starts at the feel of his hand on her shoulder.  “Something wrong?”

Rage and a whole heap of other emotions seem to have stolen her voice, so she simply shoves the phone into his hands.  She watches his face as he reads, perversely pleased by the anger that tightens his features.   He glances up at her, his eyes glittering with the same quiet fury that’s clawing at her insides.  “That’s quite the interesting development.” 

She has to clear her throat before she can speak.  “That’s one way of putting it.”

He makes a face of pure distaste at the phone, and she has the feeling he wants to pitch it against the closest wall.  “It’s clear he’s still under the impression that you believe him to be nothing more than a mild-mannered business man whose heart you’ve broken.”

“Yep.”

She hears herself bite out the word like a curse, and he puts a reassuring hand on her arm as she takes the phone from him and thumbs through to the phone app.  “You don’t have to contact him, love.”

“I know.”   She gives him what she hopes is a confident glance, but she suspects it falls way short. “I’m calling Kathryn.”

It’s just after eight on a Saturday morning, but she has no doubt Kathryn will be awake. She’s right.  Her boss answers on the third ring, and Emma hears what sounds like cartoons playing in the background.  “Emma?”

“Is this a bad time for you?”

“No, it’s fine, let me just find a closed door I can hide behind.”  There’s a faint rustle of movement, then the cartoon background noise is gone.  “Strangely enough, I was just about to call you.  Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Emma glances at the man beside her, his eyes filled with concern.  “Can I put you on speaker?”

“Sure.”

“Walsh sent me a text this morning.”  She rattles off the message, feeling faintly sick at the sheer audacity of his over-the-top apology, knowing the man he really is.  “He wants to meet for brunch tomorrow,” she adds in a rush, only slightly comforted by the feel of Killian’s hand stroking up and down her back.  “Why the hell would he bother doing that?”

Kathryn’s sigh is clearly heard through the small phone speaker.  “Because he wants you to be his alibi.”

Emma stares at the phone. _Just when she thought she couldn’t be angrier,_ she thinks darkly. “What?”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of more bad news, Emma, but it seems that this has been his habit for some time now.  I’ve spent yesterday going over all the information I have with a veritable fine toothed comb, and after talking to my contact at the Boston PD, it appears that the dates of the Boston break-ins are almost a perfect match with surveillance photos of his public outings with you.”

Beside her, she can literally feel the tension radiating from Killian, and she wonders how much willpower it’s costing him to stay silent during this supposedly private call between her and her employer.  One look at his stony expression tells her that it’s a _lot._

“So what do I do now? Ignore him?  Politely refuse? Go to brunch and see if he incriminates himself over eggs benedict?” Killian’s hand twitches on her back at the last question, and she’s careful not to look at him while they wait for Kathryn’s answer.

“Let me speak to my contact.  I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.”

She’s barely disconnected the call before he says her name in exactly the tone she was expecting him to use.  “ _Swan_.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Tossing back the bed clothes, she gets to her feet and picks up her robe from the end of the bed. 

He climbs out of bed with equal speed, pulling on the sweatpants and t-shirt she’d peeled off him sometime after midnight last night.  “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid I’m going to do something stupid.”  She tosses the words over her shoulder as she heads for the bathroom, but he’s hot on her heels.

“ _Are_ you planning on doing something stupid?”

She turns to face him, pulling the tie of her robe tighter, wondering if he’d noticed she’d slipped her phone into one of the deep pockets. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”

He scrubs his hands through his hair, making it stand on end, and her own hands itch with the urge to smooth it down. “Well, for starters, darling, I don’t think I could ever fancy Walsh, so-”

She grabs onto the irritation that flashes through her, because it’s easier than feeling guilty over the worry in his bright eyes. “Don’t turn this into a joke, okay?”  

“When it comes to your emotional and physical wellbeing, Swan, I’m deadly serious, I assure you.”

Leaning forward, she touches her mouth to his, her hand flat over his heart.  His heart is racing beneath her palm, and she knows it’s not because of the kiss.  “Let’s just wait and see what Kathryn has to say.”

He gives her a long look, his eyes searching hers, but all he says is, “I’ll make us some coffee.” He lets her go then, and she closes the bathroom door behind her.  Letting out a shaky sigh, she leans back against it, her palms pressed flat against the cool grain of the wood. 

_He wants you to be his alibi._

She closes her eyes.  Only one other person who’s still in her life knows what a red hot trigger word _alibi_ is for her, but she’s currently in another state visiting family.  Mary Margaret is the one who picked her up off the ground and helped put her back together after the end of her relationship with Neal had left her in pieces.  She’s always respected Emma’s preference to not look backwards or discuss Neal (or his bastard of a father), but right now Emma has never wanted her friend to walk through the front door more in her life.

She feels her jaw clench, and wonders vaguely if her teeth are grinding. She should have seen the signs.  She should have _known_ that Walsh had been too good to be true.

Switching her phone to silent, she finally starts to go through her usual Saturday morning bathroom routine, and it’s not until after she’s brushing her teeth that she feels the phone begin to vibrate in her pocket.   Putting down the toilet lid, she perches on the seat, her phone pressed hard to her ear.

“Well?”

“Firstly,” Kathryn says quietly, “I know this is a lot to ask of you, and it’s perfectly fine if you don’t feel comfortable-”

“Kathryn, please just tell me what you need.”

Emma listens intently as her boss spells out the suggested game plan, so to speak, and the churning in her stomach is slowly replaced by the familiar sensation adrenalin spiking her blood.  She knows Killian will be horrified, but this isn’t about him. This is something she needs to do. Somehow, she’ll have find a way to make him understand that.

“Okay.”  Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath and throws one last toss of the dice. “I’m in.”

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

~*~

 

If he’s proven one fact beyond a shadow of a doubt this morning, it’s that a man shouldn’t operate an espresso machine when he’s bloody furious.  Sucking the steam burn on his thumb, he thumps the silver milk jug onto the counter and decides to postpone his coffee-making endeavours for a time when he isn’t filled with the urge to punch the closest flat surface very hard.

(If he pictured Monkey Boy’s face on the item in question, he doubts he’d feel the slightest sting in his knuckles afterwards.)

Which, now that he thinks about it, reminds him there’s something he’s been meaning to do.

Five minutes later, he’s pitching the remains of Emma’s end table into the dumpster closest to their apartment building, every dull _thunk_ of wood proving surprisingly satisfying.  He’s beginning to see why she trashed the bloody thing in the first place.  When the old box he’d commandeered for the task is empty, he tosses that in as well, then dusts his hands on the seat of his jeans.  It’s a temporary fix, though, and by the time he reaches their apartment, he’s seething all over again.

That _fucking_ bastard.

He can hear the shower running, and even though he knows now is definitely not the time to try his hand at a spot of wooing, that closed bathroom door niggles at him more than he likes to admit.  He’s seen firsthand what happens when Emma Swan decides to shut someone out, many a time, and the thought of their newly minted relationship backsliding makes his gut hurt.

Too restless to sit still, he starts to make breakfast, unwilling to watch Emma eat stale donuts two mornings in a row.  He inspects the contents of the refrigerator, wondering darkly what kind of meal will best say ‘I love you very much, but I’m worried you’re about to do something extremely rash’.   _It had promised to be such a restful morning until that bloody text message had arrived_ , he muses unhappily. Flirting with the woman he adores over a cooked breakfast and good coffee, knowing that it’s Saturday morning and there’s nowhere else they need to be. 

Scowling, he slices an onion and a nub of chorizo with more violence than the task calls for, then dumps it all in the skillet.  Whatever Emma is cooking up with Kathryn, he suspects he has a snowflake’s chance in hell of changing her mind.  He may as well make sure she eats a good breakfast while she’s scheming to bring down the man who lied to her every day for almost two years.

She appears five minutes later, dressed all in black, her damp hair pulled back in a braid, and his heart sinks at the sight of her.  He knows her far too well not to recognise that she’s already mentally preparing herself for battle.  She smiles at him, but he sees the anxiety in her eyes. “That smells great.”

“Thank you.”  Beating the eggs he’s just cracked into a silver mixing bowl, he can feel her gaze on him.  When he says nothing else, she moves closer, trailing her hand over the counter top.

“You okay?”

He looks up at her, his fingers tightening around the whisk in his hand.  “That’s my line, surely.”

She licks her lips nervously as she waves her phone in his direction. “Kathryn called back.” He restrains himself to a nod, not trusting his tongue not to run away from him, and Emma frowns.  “Don’t you want to know what she said?”

Moving to the stove, he pours the beaten egg over the chorizo, then turns down the heat under the pan. “Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m not sure I do.”

He hears her blow out a sigh. “Will you at least hear me out before you start panicking?”

“As you wish.” Dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he waves her towards the kitchen table.  “Would you like coffee?”

“Just come and sit down for a minute, okay?”

He does as she asks, knowing that whatever she’s got to tell him, he’s not going to like it.

He’s right.

Five minutes later, when she finishes speaking, he gazes at her unhappily. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re effectively going to let Kathryn - and the authorities - use you as a honey trap.”

She presses her lips together into a tight line. “It’s not as simple as that.”

He’s not going to be distracted by semantics, not when it comes to her. “Yes, it is.”

She reaches across the table to curl her hand around his. “He won’t hurt me.”

Anger streaks through him, and he grips her hand tightly. “Do you know how many of my clients have said those exact same words to me?” 

Discomfort flickers across her face.  “Killian-”

“And how many of them were sadly proven wrong?”

She tugs her hand out of his, leaning back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest. “If this is the part where you tell me that my job is too dangerous and you don’t want me to go, you can stop talking right now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He finds himself pinching the bridge of his nose, as if that might ease the dull pounding of his thoughts.  “We both know your job _is_ dangerous at times, Swan.”  He looks at her, his heart clenching at the uncertainty in her eyes. “But I would never presume to tell you what you can and can’t do for a living.  Savvy?”

He adds the last word to make her smile.  To his utter relief, she does. “I’ll be in phone contact with Kathryn and Leroy will be on site as back-up.”  She’s watching him carefully, and there’s an odd hesitancy in her voice that gives him pause.  It occurs to him that if he really pushed the issue, he could perhaps persuade her from this course of action. As tempting as that is, however, he knows this is not his decision to make.

“Funnily enough, I’m free tomorrow morning.”  He tries to keep his tone light, but he suspects he’s not entirely successful.  “Perhaps I could offer my services as well.”

Tilting her head, she frowns at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Absolutely.”

Her frown deepens. “Why, so I can worry about your safety as well as my own?”

He rises to his feet and walks to the stove, essentially to check on the eggs but also to give himself some breathing space.  That fucking _bastard_.  “I thought you said he wouldn’t hurt you.”

He turns in time to see the frustration that flashes across her face.  “He won’t.”  She leans forward, her gaze never leaving his.  “I know him.”

After a cursory glance to make sure he hasn’t ruined their breakfast, he turns off the heat under the back.  The eggs look marvellous, but his appetite seems to have temporarily fled. “Swan, if the past few days have taught us anything, it’s that you clearly _didn’t_ know him.”

She huffs out a sharp breath, but she doesn’t argue the point.  “He used me as a cover story for almost two years.” Putting her elbows on the table, she presses her fingers against her temples for a long second, then looks up at him. “I need to do this.”

“I know.” He swallows hard, but the sudden knot in his throat doesn’t budge.  He may not know all the details about the end of her relationship with Neal all those years ago, but he knows enough.  “Forgive me if this comes out as flowery nonsense, but it’s not merely your physical safety that concerns me.”

She blinks, and he realises with dismay that her eyes are glittering. “I know you just want to help, but I don’t want you to be there.”

He knows she’s speaking out of concern for him, but the words still feel like a slap. Giving himself a mental shake (this isn’t about you, mate) he crosses the kitchen to crouch down beside her, his arm resting on the back of her chair.  “I’d rather _you_ weren’t there, either.”  He brushes his knuckles against the curve of her cheek, and she leans into his touch. “That man spent almost two years in your company, Swan. The fact that he didn’t fall hopelessly in love with you is just more proof that he’s not a man at all but more likely a soulless automaton dropped out of the sky by a passing alien vessel.”

She sniffs loudly, tears still glittering in her eyes. “You’ve been reading your Ray Bradbury books again, haven’t you?”

He opens his mouth to deny the accusation, then thinks better of it. She’s right, after all. “Perhaps, but that’s not the point.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s a simple occupy and distract operation,” she tells him, her eyes searching his.  “It’s not as though I’ll have to taser and cuff him.”

“He’d probably enjoy that part,” he mutters, unable to hold his tongue, and she backhands his bicep with a snap.

“Seriously?”

“Sorry.” Catching her hand in his, he lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Do you think perhaps we could eat breakfast and talk about this later?”

She smiles at him, her long eyelashes still damp with tears, and his throat tightens.  “I’d like that.”  She squeezes his hand, then pushes back her chair and reaches for the phone on the table.  “But first I have text my ex-boyfriend to set up a brunch date.”

Somehow he manages to suppress the childish urge to snatch the phone out of her hands, instead giving her the most teasing smile he can summon. “Just what every man wants to hear the morning after a night of passion.”  Smiling, she rolls her eyes at him as she leaves the room, her fingers already busily tapping at her phone, and he shakes his head as he calls after her.  “I’ll just make the coffee then, shall I?”

Her reply comes drifting back from the hallway. “That would be great, thanks.”

He stands at the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers loudly as he glares at the espresso machine.  He shouldn’t be in here, calmly making coffee. He should be following Emma into the living room and doing his best to convince her not to go anywhere near her giant-toothed waste of space of an ex-boyfriend, not frothing milk and precisely measuring out exactly the number of shots she prefers in her latte.

Pinching the bridge of his nose for the second time that morning, he heaves a heavy sigh, because it appears he’s still a little fucked when it comes to Emma Swan.  He glowers at the espresso machine for a few more seconds, then picks up the silver milk jug.  Things may be emotionally fraught this morning, he decides, but there’s no need to add caffeine withdrawal into the mix.

~*~

_I feel bad about how we left things, too. I’m free Sunday morning so brunch would be okay.  Where did you have in mind?  E_

Emma checks the text for what feels like the hundredth time, then presses send.  As it starts its journey through the ether, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply through her nose, hoping to quell the uneasy rolling in the pit of her stomach.   She’s no stranger to lying in order to charm a mark, but this is different.  This is someone she thought she loved.  Hell, someone she did love, once upon a time.

Nothing like a big chunk of déjà vu to make you question your judgment, she thinks wearily. Whatever happens over brunch, she has the feeling it’s going to sting like a bitch.  She leans her head back against the couch cushions, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

Maybe Killian’s right to be worried about her.

A moment later, her phone buzzes with a reply, and she steels herself for another round of playing nice. 

**_I’m really glad to hear that.  What about 10am at Galinda’s?  I know you love their pancakes. :)_ **

Glaring at the smiley face, Emma mulls over the location.  Galinda’s is five blocks from Walsh’s store, which is why they’d been regular customers in the past.  Deciding she needs to check with Kathryn to see if that gives them enough breathing space, she quickly dials her boss’ number.  Kathryn picks up on the second ring, and the conversation is swift and to the point.  Another moment later, Emma taps out a second text, her pulse quickening slightly as she presses send.

 _Okay.  Been a while since I had their banana and choc-chip special.  See you there at 10am tomorrow.  E_  

She tosses her phone onto the couch beside her, suddenly feeling more than a little queasy at stooping to Walsh’s level with the whole subterfuge thing.   She goes to scrub her hands through her hair, realising at the last moment that she’s about to ruin her braid.   She presses the heels of her palms to her closed eyes instead, counting to ten slowly until the churning in her stomach eases.  Opening her eyes, she finds herself staring at the bare spot on the living room rug where she’d last seen the remains of her former end table, belatedly realising that _someone_ has beaten her to the job of taking it down to the dumpster.  

_Oops._

Getting to her feet, she picks up her phone and heads back to the kitchen, hoping that the last five minutes (and maybe tossing around chunks of wood) have given Killian enough time to cool off.

As she reaches the end of the hallway, she hears the unmistakable sound of a china mug breaking into a dozen pieces in the sink, followed by a growling commentary. “Sodding thing.”

Emma sighs.  Maybe she should have given him _ten_ minutes. _Or maybe smashed a bigger piece of furniture_ , she thinks wryly as she hears another string of muttered slander. 

“I really hope that wasn’t Mary Margaret’s _apple for teacher_ mug.”

He looks at her over his shoulder, hands deep in the sink as he picks up pieces of broken china.  “Thankfully, no. Just some cheap thing I bought first year of college.”  He’s unearthed an old newspaper from the recycling (she’d never admit it, but she’s always thought it was cute that he liked the print version of the daily news) and laid it flat on the counter top.  As she watches, he carefully dumps the chards of white china onto the paper, then wraps it securely.  “I take it the deed is done?”

“What?” Distracted by the graceful movements of his hands, the question takes a few seconds to register.  “Oh, right.  Yep, done and dusted.”

A tiny muscle flickers in his jaw.  “And just where will this brunch of subterfuge and deceit take place?” 

She narrows her eyes at him as he pushes a fresh mug of coffee across the counter to her.  “If I tell you, will you promise me that you’re not planning to pop up at the next table?”

He hesitates just long enough for her to start worrying, then he shakes his head, not looking at her as he rummages in the top drawer for two forks.  “You have my word that I won’t pop up at the next table.”

She narrows her eyes a little more (she’s known him long enough to know when he’s hiding behind legalese), then tells him anyway, because she has no doubt he’d manage to find out somehow.

“I’m meeting him at Galinda’s.”

He makes a soft scoffing noise at the back of his throat.  “Typical.”

Galinda’s is definitely the type of place he likes to avoid, and she takes a long, appreciative sip of coffee to hide her smile at his reaction. (It’s perfect, as usual.   _Damn him._ )  “This is a whole new side to you, this jealousy thing.”    

He gives her a long-suffering look.  “I vowed to hold my tongue as long as he made you happy.”  Pulling two plates out of the cupboard, he clunks them onto the counter top, his mouth curved in a wry smile.  “As that is clearly no longer the case, I now have free rein to express my dislike.”

She looks at him, wondering if he resented Walsh as much as she resented the seemingly endless parade of woman he’d dated. “I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”  She’s fishing shamelessly now, but texting with Walsh has taken the shine off her morning, and she hates the thought of losing even the tiniest bit of the giddy glow she’s felt over the last two days. 

“I’m not,” he shoots back, moving to the stove to dish up whatever it is that smells so amazing.  “But when it comes to you, Swan, I think we’ve established that I don’t always behave as rationally as a man should.”

She hesitates, wondering if she should swallow the confession that’s burning the tip of her tongue, then decides to go for it.  What the hell, right?  “I kind of like it.”

He pauses in the middle of scooping piles of bright yellow scrambled eggs onto a plate, his bright blue eyes meeting hers with an almost audible snap.  “Is that so?”

“Mmmm.”  She strolls across the kitchen to take the plate from his hand, brushing his cheek with a kiss.  His beard prickles gently against her lips, making her inner thighs tingle with the memory of his chin scraping against the sensitive skin there, and her face grows warm in a way that has nothing to do with the nearby stove.  She swallows hard, tightening her grip on the plate she’s holding. “What other secrets have you been hiding from me?”

He quirks a dark eyebrow at her, his slow smile seeming to make the weird tension over Walsh’s text melt away. “All in due course, Swan.”  Twisting gracefully, he picks up the second plate and starts to load it with scrambled eggs and chorizo.

(It’s one of her favourite things in the world to eat, no matter what the time of day, and the thought of him making it especially for her even though he was pissed about Walsh almost makes her tear up.  It’s like the fucking chopped up steak all over again, she realises.)

When she doesn’t speak - she can’t, there’s a lump in her throat - a flicker of discomfort crosses his face, and he takes the plate from her hand, quickly carrying both servings to the kitchen table before coming back to her.  “I know this is rather rich, considering our complicated history, but you don’t have to worry about me keeping secrets from you, love.”   He takes her hands in his, his eyes searching hers.  “I’m exactly who I say I am, trust me.”

She leans into the solid warmth of him, burying her nose in the curve of his neck, inhaling the clean, warm scent of his skin.  “I know.”

She feels his chest rise and fall with a sigh, then he releases her hands to wrap his arms around her, pulling her closer.  “I take it our plans for a quiet day at home today need to be put on hold.”

She nods, her face still buried in the crook of his neck. “I have to meet with Kathryn this morning.”

She feels his lips brush the top of her head, then he eases her away from him, his eyes once again locking with hers.  “Tonight, then?”

The rush of anticipation that washes over her shouldn’t come as a shock, but it does.  She wonders if she’ll ever get used to it.  “I’m all yours.”

He grins, obviously pleased to have his own words quoted back at him, teeth flashing white against his dark stubble.  “I’ll hold you to that.”  Before she can reply, he puts his hands on her shoulders and gently turns her to face the kitchen table.  “Right now, however, I think we should eat breakfast before it gets cold.”

The tenderness in his voice makes her feel as though her skin is glowing, and she curls her hand around his arm. “Wait.”  When he turns to look at her, she rises up on her toes to find his mouth with hers, his muffled hum of pleasure making her skin tingle even more.  It’s a soft, slow kiss (he tastes of coffee and garlic and spices, because the cook always samples his creations and God, she literally wants to sink her teeth into him) that makes her knees quiver and her breath stick in her throat.   When she pulls back, he’s looking at her with glittering eyes, and she suddenly loves him so much she can’t bite back the words.  “I love you.”

She sees his throat work as he swallows, and she knows she’s taken him by surprise, and not just with that kiss.  “You certainly know how to get a man’s day off to a good start, Swan.”   Dipping his head, he kisses her gently, his lips firm and warm against hers.  “And I love _you_ , despite your rather vexing habit of making brunch dates with other men right under my nose.”

She laughs, the tight knot of tension that’s been wedged between her shoulder blades all morning suddenly easing.  “A one-time thing, I promise.”

“I certainly hope so.” He looks as though he wants to say something else (probably something creatively insulting about Walsh), but instead he just smiles, once again urging her towards a chair.  “Come on, Swan.  A bounty hunter needs a hearty breakfast before she dashes off to catch the bad guys.”

Much to Emma’s relief, they don’t talk about Walsh or Kathryn at all while they eat, instead discussing things like their absent housemates ( _How do I think they’re going to take the news?  Well, love, I suspect David will be insufferable, and Mary Margaret will be torn between excitement and resentment that she missed all the drama._ ) and if they need to buy more coffee beans for the rest of the weekend.  Despite the tense start to their morning, the conversation is relaxed, almost lazy, and when she thanks him for taking the smashed end table down to the dumpster, she watches in fascination as the tips of his ears turn pink. 

“Think nothing of it.”

She considers teasing him about the whole blushing thing, then decides to take pity on him and concentrate on breakfast instead. The scrambled eggs he’s concocted are amazing, and she does her best to ignore his smug expression as she all but licks the plate clean.  

“Better than a stale donut?”

She tries not to cast a longing look at her empty plate. “I guess.”

“Such damning with faint praise.” He chuckles, reaching across the table to wrap his fingers around the end of her braid.  “Is this where you kick me in the shins and run off, love?”

Grinning, she curls her hand around his, giving it a gentle squeeze before detaching it from her braid.  “And pour pencil shavings in your bed.”

His smile becomes faintly wicked. “Well, I’ll just have to sleep in your bed then, won’t I?”

And just like that, all she wants to do is haul him to the nearest flat surface (or vertical, if she’s perfectly honest) and peel off all the clothing they’ve just put on.   _This is getting ridiculous_ , she thinks, shifting restlessly in her chair.  “Hold that thought, okay?  I have to meet Kathryn at the office in an hour.”

He frowns. “She’s not going to wire you up, is she?”

She gives his hand another squeeze, then pushes back her chair.  “You’ve been watching too many crime procedurals,” she tells him as she starts to clear away their dirty plates, all-too conscious of his steady gaze.

“Emma.”

She looks at him, and the worry etched on his face has her putting down the plates and moving to stand beside his chair.  Curling her arms around his shoulders, she hugs him close.  “No wire.”

His cheek pressed against her stomach, he trails one hand down the back of her leg to explore the hollow behind her knee.  Even through her jeans, the simple caress has goosebumps rising up on her skin.  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

“You have to stop overthinking this.” She combs her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp and he closes his eyes, leaning into her touch.  “I do this for a living, remember?”

She hears him inhale sharply though his nose at that, but he doesn’t say what they both already know; that nothing about this situation is that simple.  “Nevertheless, I’ll be very glad when the weasel has been clapped in irons and hauled away.”

She grins at that - he’s right, she does love it when he talks like a 19th century poet of the high seas – and tightens her grip on a handful of dark, silky hair.  “You and me both.” 

He tilts back his head to look at her, and she can’t resist the urge to kiss him one more time, chasing the slick warmth of his tongue with hers, arousal thrumming softly between her thighs.  When it’s over, they’re both breathing hard and she’s wondering if she can push her meeting with Kathryn back an hour or so.  “Let me take you out tonight,” he murmurs, his hand once again stroking a path up and down the back of her leg. 

“Like, on a date?’

“No, to stake out Monkey Boy’s house,” he deadpans, his fingers dipping downward to explore the curve of her calf muscle.  “Yes, on a date.”

She’s tempted - God, she’s beyond tempted - but tomorrow morning she has to face Walsh over eggs and pancakes and pretend she doesn’t know that he’s actually a scum-sucking thieving liar, and she doesn’t want that hanging over them.  “I really want to, but can I take a raincheck until a night when I don’t have to see my ex under false pretences the next morning?”

She sees the disappointment that flashes in his eyes, but his tone is teasing. “There you go again, choosing another man over my dashing self.”

Smoothing his tousled hair back from his forehead, she smiles down at him.  “Not any more, I promise,” she tells him, and his answering smile makes her feel as though she could fly to her meeting with Kathryn. 

“Good.”

~*~

 

When Emma leaves for her meeting with Kathryn (he smiles as she slams the front door behind her as usual), the apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too big.   Too empty.  They’ve only been in this budding relationship for two days (if that), and he already feels at a loss without her company.

If he didn’t already know that he’d fallen for her beyond the point of no return, this would be a rather obvious portent.

Perhaps he should do something useful with his day, rather than moping about the apartment, torturing himself by mentally replaying the previous evening’s erotic events.  Stripping off his day-old jeans and shirt, he takes a hot shower (they really need to get that bloody exhaust fan fixed), and decides he has enough energy to head into the office for a few hours. 

(Anything to keep him from constantly thinking about Emma having to play nice with that bastard Walsh tomorrow morning.)

His particular corner of the firm is quiet, which is a relief.  While he’s sure he’s not the only one who’s taking the opportunity to get ahead of their workload on the holiday weekend, he’s not really in the mood for making small talk with his colleagues.   Peeling off his coat, he tosses it onto the visitor’s chair rather than hang it on the coatrack (such rebellion) and logs onto his PC. 

He’s been checking his work emails and voicemails intermittently on his phone since he left the office on Wednesday evening, replying to the most urgent of them, but he still hefts a loud sigh at the sight of his inbox.  Holiday weekends are notorious for last-minute panicked contact from clients in his area of expertise, and he’s not surprised to see several familiar names popping up in his messages.  He works his way steadily through the list, soothing fears and concerns and drafting urgent correspondence to be polished and sent on Monday.   As always, he’s amazed at how much he can accomplish when there are no phones ringing and no human traffic popping in and out of his office.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t reach for his phone the second it starts to buzz with an incoming text message.  It’s not from Emma, which is admittedly a disappointment (he’s beyond saving when it comes to that girl now) but from David, who is obviously feeling an overabundance of familial company.

**Hiding out in spare bedroom.  MM has been co-opted into tour of my mother’s garden.  Again. Vast number of people, most of them related to me in mysterious ways, constantly streaming through house. Will never complain again about having to listen to you and Emma arguing over what to watch on Netflix.  Hope you two haven’t trashed the joint. At least have the decency to wait until we’re back if you’re planning a wild party?**

Killian grins.  It’s tempting to reply with vague hints as to what’s been happening in the other man’s absence, but he has the feeling Emma would politely and efficiently murder him if he spilled the beans via text. 

**_You poor sod.  The City of Boston salutes your sacrifice, and wishes you a speedy return.  The Lady Swan and I have indeed refrained from trashing the joint, as you so vividly put it, but the weekend isn’t over yet, mate.  I remain hopeful there is still time enough for some quality mischief making in your absence.   See you Sunday night._ **

_There,_ he thinks with satisfaction.  No doubt Dave will share his reply with Mary Margaret, and the two of them can read between the lines to their hearts’ content.   He wonders vaguely if Emma received a similar message from Mary Margaret when the travellers were ensconced at Ava’s home on Thanksgiving Day, and makes a mental note to ask her.

The next hour passes uneventfully, but he finds it impossible to keep his thoughts from returning to Emma’s brunch appointment.  His promise that he won’t pop up at a neighbouring table scratches at his conscience, and his attention wanders from entering his latest chargeable hours onto the system.   He can’t bear the thought of her facing that bloody demon of a man alone, even if she did mention Kathryn and Leroy (that crusty old curmudgeon) being her support.  Surely she couldn’t object if he were present on the periphery, so to speak. 

Thinking of how she’d glared at him when he’d asked where she was having brunch, he grimaces.  Perhaps it would be wiser to keep such thoughts to himself for now, though, just to be on the safe side.

 

~*~

 

Kathryn levels a sympathetic glace across her desk.  “No second thoughts?”

“Plenty,” Emma mutters, scanning the file in front of her, “but since when has that ever stopped me?”

The other woman empties a can of energy drink (her third since Emma’s arrival) into a glass, and takes a long sip. “Leroy will be on site.”

“I guess it’s a good thing it’s brunch,” Emma deadpans. “Less chance of him being three sheets to the wind.”

“He works sober, he gets paid,” her boss deadpans right back, and the two woman share a knowing smile.  “He might be chronically bad-tempered, but he’s not an idiot.”

“Hmmm.”  Emma reads the newest additions to the file.  As of two o’clock this morning, Felix Piper is once again cooling his heels in a jail cell, which means some last minute rejigging of their original game plan.

She sips coffee as Kathryn runs through their playsheet again, trying and failing not to think of the look on Killian’s face this morning after she’d told him what they’d planned.  She’s had peopled worried for her before (you can’t be friends with David and Mary Margaret and not be fussed over from time to time) but the intensity of his concern was something very new in her life.  Something that might have even convinced her to change her plans, if he’d actually put his mind to it, but he hadn’t.

_I would never presume to tell you what you can and can’t do for a living._

Even when they were just friends (a little voice niggles at her that they’ve never been _just_ anything), he’d never hidden his admiration at her choice of career.  She’s not sure why she was worried his attitude might change once they were together, but once again he’s managed to pleasantly surprise her.  Seriously, at this point, she’s not sure if the last two days are actually real or just a figment of her imagination. Rubbing her fingers across her forehead, she suddenly becomes aware that Kathryn is watching her.  Looking up, she gives her boss a reassuring smile.  “I’ve got this, trust me.”

“It’s not that.”  Kathryn leans back in her swivel chair, cradling the glass of bright orange liquid in her hands.  “I was just thinking you look as though you finally managed to catch up on some sleep.”

Emma looks determinedly at the files notes in front of her, but she can feel the heat staining her cheeks.   “It’s amazing what you can achieve when you’re not sitting in a car for eight hours straight.”

The funny thing is that she’s probably had less sleep in last two days than she’s had all month.  Apparently great sex can both refresh _and_ revitalize, she thinks with a private smile.  Kathryn gives her another discerning glance but says nothing, and Emma has the distinct sense of having dodged a conversational bullet.   “You think Felix will crack?”

Kathryn shrugs.  “He’s a tough nut, I’ll give him that, but even the toughest nuts crack under the right amount of pressure.”  Her fingers fly over her keyboard as she talks, and Emma can’t help admiring her multi-tasking skills.  “But that’s the BPD’s job, not ours.”

An hour later, Emma steps out into the late November afternoon, feeling as though her brain has been replaced by a sponge, and a very full sponge at that.  All she wants is to go home and let Killian distract her, a skill he seems to have honed to perfection over the years. Pulling out her phone as she strides towards her car, she quickly taps out a text to ask if there’s anything he’d like her to bring home for dinner.

**_Just yourself, Swan._ **

Butterflies swoop through the pit of her belly, and she shakes her head at her giddy reaction.  Seriously, if anyone had told her a few days ago that such ordinary words could feel like a declaration of love, she’d have rolled her eyes hard enough to blur her vision.

Just as she always does, she checks the backseat of her car for any unwanted passengers, then her surroundings before she unlocks the driver’s side door.  Everything that’s going on with Walsh has made her extra vigilant, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary to be seen, just the usual Saturday afternoon pedestrian and vehicle traffic.  All the same, she breathes easier once she’s in her car with the engine running and the doors locked. 

By this time tomorrow, she tells herself as she pulls out of the small parking lot behind Midas Bonds, this business with Walsh will be done and dusted.  She can put it behind her and start living the rest of her life. 

The butterflies in her stomach make their presence felt once again, and she grips the steering wheel a little tighter.  She and Killian have talked a little about the past, a little more about the present, but not a whole lot about the future.  She’s always been a ‘one day at a time’ kind of person when it came to relationships, something Mary Margaret used to tell her would change as soon as she met the right person.

Now that she thinks about it, the last time Mary Margaret gave her that little speech, Emma had jokingly asked her if she wanted to put her money where her mouth was.  Grinning at the memory, she points the bug in the direction of home (and Killian) and is suddenly glad that her friend has never been a gambling person.

~*~

She arrives home just before six, the slam of the front door making him smile rather than wince (he has got it bad), and he barely has time to cast a critical eye over the pizza dough rising in a bowl on the counter next to the stove before she’s striding into the kitchen, still tugging off her jacket.  “Is that marinara sauce I can smell?”

Just the sight of her makes his pulse race, but he manages a devil-may-care grin.  “Perhaps.”

Her sharp gaze scours the kitchen, her eyes lighting up when she spies the bowl on the counter.  “Pizza from scratch?” she asks him hopefully, as tentatively gleeful as any child, and tenderness wells up inside him.  

“With your favourite toppings, no less.” He doesn’t tell her that thumping the pizza dough onto the flour-dusted counter top had been the best way he could think of (short of heading off for a boxing class at the gym) to work out some of pent-up frustration with the whole Walsh situation.  It had been a little too effective, so much so that he’d almost overworked the dough.  “I suspected you might need a treat after your afternoon at the office.”

Slinging her jacket over the back of the closest wooden chair, she crosses the kitchen to his side, slipping her arms around his waist and gifting him with a soft kiss. Mindful of his still-floury hands (not to mention her black clothing), he leans into the kiss carefully, wrapping one arm around her and pulling her closer.  Nudging her nose against his cheek, her lips curve against his in a smile.  “I missed you today.”

He’d missed her too, more than he’d thought possible.  “And I you, love.”

Her arms tighten around his waist, her chin tucked into the curve of his neck.  “You wanna hear about my afternoon?”

He hesitates, torn between wanting to know every detail of her planned meeting with that sodding bastard and wanting to pretend the man no longer exists in this time and space continuum.  “Why don’t you get comfortable and you can tell me about your nefarious plans while we eat?”

She leans back in his embrace, her eyes flashing as she pressed her hips slowly into his. “You know, I _do_ love it when you use those big words.”

 _Bloody hell._  Nary a drop of alcohol has passed his lips today, but he suddenly feels punch-drunk.  “That sounds like a challenge to me, Swan.”

Her smile reminds him of several of the unspeakably wonderful things she’s done to him over the last few days, and his heart starts to beat a tattoo against his ribs.  “You’re making my favourite pizza, Jones. Trust me, you’re already way ahead in the challenge stakes.”

In the end, they make dinner together.  After she’s changed out of her unofficial bailbonds persona uniform into her lounging uniform of leggings and a long sweater, she joins him in assembling toppings, then insists on stacking the dishwasher (he’s a messy cook, he’s the first to admit it) before going in search of a bottle of red wine in the communal wine rack.

“You like this one, don’t you?”  He looks up to find her brandishing a bottle of merlot at him.  “I remember you saying it was good when we had those friends over David’s over for dinner.”

He feels his eyebrows lift at that.  The dinner in question had been six months ago, at least, and the fact that she’s remembered his chance remark only serves to make him realise just how many time he’d wasted by holding his tongue. “Any one would think that you’d been hanging on my every word that night, love.”

The rolling of her eyes does nothing to distract from the faint pink that colours her high cheekbones. “Ego the size of the freaking city,” she mutters as she retrieves two wine glasses and clunks them onto the kitchen table, but he can see that she’s smiling.  “You want to eat in here or in front of the TV?”

He nods towards the oven.  “It’s pizza, Swan.  Definitely in front of the television.”

They commandeer the couch that Mary Margaret and David usually use (he’s long been of the opinion that it offers the better view of the flat screen, but felt it impolite to complain when neither the couch nor the flat screen are his property), and set about slowly demolishing the pizza and the bottle of wine between them. Despite their earlier exchange, she doesn’t mention Walsh until the pizza is gone and they’re both on their third glass of wine.  She sinks backwards into a small pile of cushions, her bare feet resting in his lap, then clears her throat.  

“Actually, do you mind if we don’t talk about tomorrow? I’m a little talked out after being with Kathryn all afternoon.”

She looks weary, he realises with a pang, and silently curses her ex-lover for the hundredth time today. “Of course not.”  He drops his hands to her feet, stroking his fingertips along the baby-soft skin from her ankle to her toes.  He wants very much to quiz her on every detail of her planned meeting with Walsh, but he’s determined to respect her wishes, at least on this point. “But I take it that it’s still all systems go?”

“Yep.”  She wriggles against the cushions, her eyes closing as she points her toes, stretching.  “God, that feels so nice.”

He presses his thumbs gently against her insteps, smiling at the subtle tremor that runs through her. He’s always thought her feet were beautiful (yes, he’s quite biased, thank you very much), with their slender bones and perfectly painted toenails.  Her choice of polish this week is a dark grey, a tiny detail he’d managed to notice when they’d wound up in her bed on Thursday night, which is quite surprising, given the circumstances.

Then again, as he’d told her earlier, he’s a fan of _every_ part of her. 

“Well, you’ve got a stressful morning ahead of you,” he tells her, keeping his tone as composed as he can.  “I thought perhaps I could help you relax this evening.”

He squeezes gently, and the soft sound of pleasure she makes at the back of her throat sends a jolt of arousal straight to his groin.  There is something so intimate about what he’s doing, running his hands over the delicate jut of her ankles, then stroking his knuckle from her right heel to the ball of her foot, making her squirm once again.  Her breasts press against the thin fabric of her sweatshirt as her spine arches, and he has to say, he finally appreciates the viewpoint of those interesting souls who possess a foot fetish. “Ticklish, Swan?”

Opening her eyes, she licks her lips as she presses her heels hard into his thigh.  “Not exactly.”  Devilry flashes in her eyes, and he holds his breath as she stretches one long leg, her foot finding the zipper of his jeans. His blood rushes southward at the contact, and her eyes never leave his as she kneads his growing erection with her painted toes.  “Are _you_?”

Circling her ankle with his fingers, he presses the ball of her foot harder against his zipper, letting her feel what she’s done to him.  Her eyes widen, the tip of her pink tongue coming out to touch her bottom lip once again, and he suddenly wants her so much he can’t bear to wait another moment.   “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

She does.

Their kisses are flavoured with garlic and wine and quickly turn from slow and lazy to hungry and more than a little filthy.  When she climbs into his lap, he cups his hand between her legs, and the heat of her warms his palm through the thin fabric of her leggings.  He’s already painfully hard, his cock tenting stiff and thick against his jeans, and when she whispers to him to leave their dirty plates, she’ll clear them away later, she just needs him in her bed, needs him to _fuck_ her, right now, he doesn’t argue.

He’s never been one to refuse a heartfelt plea from a lady, after all.

Her bedroom is their chosen destination once more, but things between them feel different this time.  She’s relentless, almost frantic, and when he’s finally buried deep inside her, their entwined hands pressed into the pillows on either side of her head, he feels a shuddering wave of tension ripple through her.  “You okay there, darling?”

She nods, but her lovely face is tight with impatience.  “I’m fine.” Silencing him with a kiss, she arches beneath him, the shift of her hips taking him even deeper inside the silken heat of her body, and pleasure shudders through him.  He knows there’s something she’s not telling him, something simmering beneath the surface of her thoughts, but he’s only human, and her fingers are digging into his arse now, urging him on.

He bows his head to her breasts, her nipples tightly beaded against his tongue and between his teeth, the thrust of his hips no longer gentle but answering her silent plea for urgency.   She responds in kind, her fingernails scoring his skin, her teeth sharp on his bottom lip. By the time she’s writhing and breathless beneath him, her pale breasts flushed, her eyes glittering, he’s barely holding himself in check, staving off his own body’s capitulation with every delaying technique he knows.

She comes first, but it’s a close thing.  A string of soft expletives falls from her kiss-swollen lips as the tight heat of her flutters around him, dragging him over the edge in her wake, and his shout of completion is embarrassingly loud in her quiet bedroom.  

If he had the energy to be embarrassed, of course.  Right now, he’s not sure he has the energy for anything other than lying entangled with a naked Emma Swan, her damp skin glued to his, her breath stuttering hot against his throat.  

_Bliss._

And yet -

Something’s still not quite right.

Rolling to sit on the side of the bed, he deals with the spent condom, then turns to consider the woman lying beside him.  Her eyes are closed, one arm flung over her face.  Her breathing is suspiciously even, and he has the sudden sense that she’s trying to hide in plain sight.  “If you’re pretending to be asleep, Swan, you’re doing a spectacularly poor job of it.”  Reaching down, he curves his hand over her bare knee, squeezing it gently. “Don’t shut out me out, love, not now.”

Pulling her arm from her face, she fixes him with a glare that, once upon a time, would have had him biting his tongue.  But that was then and this is now, and he no longer has to hide how he feels about her.  He returns her glare with a mild gaze of his own, and finally she sighs loudly.  “ _Fine._ ” She looks away, her eyes trained on the ceiling above her bed. “If we talk about it, you might talk me out of going to meet Walsh tomorrow, and it’s something I need to do, so I don’t want to talk about it with you. Okay?”

He blinks, fighting to reboot his brain whilst every inch of him is still swimming with endorphins. “Are you saying here’s a chance I _could_ dissuade you from going?”

She rolls onto her side to face him, still as naked as the day she was born, her gaze finally meeting his once again.  “This time tomorrow, he’ll be out of my life for good.”

He gives her what he’s quite sure is an exasperated look, because that’s not an answer to his question and they both know it.   She sits up, letting the sheet falling away from her lovely breasts, and it says a great deal about his current state of mind that he barely affords them a glance.  “Can we just do something fun like watch a movie or ridiculous animal videos on the internet tonight?”  

Her tone is beseeching, and he scrubs his hand over his face.  Feeling as though he’s got one foot hovering over the fork in two paths, he finally nods.  “As the lady wishes.  Perhaps a spot of mindless but well-executed violence might do the trick?”

She flashes him a smile over her naked shoulder as she reaches down to pick up her clothes from the floor.  “Perfect.”

They spend the rest of the evening wallowing in Tarantino movies, their feet propped up on the coffee table, and every time she hides her face against his shoulder, he falls in love with her a little bit more.  

It’s almost midnight when they go to bed (it’s been years since he’s brushed his teeth in that silent, comfortable ballet of _spit_ and _rinse_ that comes of sharing a bathroom with someone you love) and once they’re stretched out in her bed, lights out, she curls into his side. “You know I love you, right?”

Perhaps he’s being paranoid, paying too much attention to the dull anxiety lodged somewhere behind his heart, but her words are more than a little ominous, and he’s grateful for the cover of darkness.  “I do indeed, but I’m more than happy for you to keep reminding me, Swan.”

Her laughter is quiet in the darkness.  “I’ll see what I can do.”  He feels the fleeting brush of her lips against his shoulder, then she’s nestling down beneath the covers, her feet tangled with his, and he knows any chance of conversation is over, at least until the morning.

He lies awake long after her breathing has become steady and even, willing himself to relax but unable to rid himself of the endlessly looping thoughts of her having to meet that bloody prick tomorrow morning.  

Closing his eyes, he concentrates on the lingering scent of her (it’s on the sheets and his skin) and the warmth of her body that seems to burrow into his memory like a welcome burr of sensory pleasure.  He threads his hand gently through the silken tangle of her hair, shifting closer as his heartbeat finally slows, matching itself to hers.

She moves closer, murmuring soft, nonsensical words in her sleep, and his chest tightens. Tomorrow morning, she will go to face Walsh, and he has no intention of letting her go into that particular battle without him.

He just hopes that, afterwards, she forgives him this one little white lie.

That’s his last thought before oblivion takes him, warm and dark.  When he next opens his eyes, the bedroom is filled with sunlight.  He blinks, rubbing his eyes to find Emma already dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed as she pulls on her boots. He scrambles to sit up, doing his best not to sound as mildly panicked as he feels.  “What time is it?”

She flashes him a quick smile as she zips up her left boot. “Just after nine.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

She shrugs, her gaze not quite meeting his as she gets to her feet and smooths her hands down the front of her skirt. She’s wearing one of his favourite outfits today, a short floral dress over black tights, and he knows without looking that her demin jacket will be draped at the end of the bed.  “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He feels his gaze narrow.  She truly is a terrible liar, he thinks, at least when it comes to _him_. “Were you planning on leaving for your brunch appointment without saying goodbye?”

“Of course not.”  She smiles as she leans down to kiss him, giving him no chance to protest that he hasn’t had time to brush his teeth, her mouth warm and soft as it lingers on his.  Finally, she straightens, running her hand through his hair as he curls his hands around the backs of her thighs beneath the hem of her short skirt. Current circumstances notwithstanding, he really _does_ enjoy this particular dress. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll make you a cup of tea?”

She kisses him again, this time on the top of his head, then extracts herself to vanish in the direction of the kitchen. This early on a Sunday morning, their apartment block is preternaturally quiet, and he clearly hears the surging rattle of the elderly water pipes in action as she fills the kettle, then the opening and closing of the refrigerator door.  

He dutifully makes his way to the bathroom, wondering if she might be persuaded to let him drive her to Galinda’s (another wretchedly overpriced hive of painfully hip menu items) for her sting operation.  It’s certainly worth a try, he decides.  Shrugging out of his t-shirt and sweatpants, he yawns as he steps into the shower. He’s just about to turn both taps on when he hears footsteps, swift and determined, followed by the front door of the apartment slamming.

No.  

She _wouldn’t._

Flinging open the glass shower door, he grabs the nearest towel and wraps it around his waist, marching down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Emma?”

There’s no answer, of course, because the kitchen is empty, the kettle safely switched off at the wall.

He tries her bedroom next, and finds her purse and denim jacket both nowhere to be seen, along with her car keys.  

Feeling his jaw clench, he makes his way into the living room, and his gaze immediately flicks to the open doorway of his bedroom.  His satchel is on the end of his bed, which is where he’d left it last night, admittedly, but he’s quite sure the zipper on the small side pocket where he keeps his car keys hadn’t been open –

She wouldn’t.  Surely, she wouldn’t.

He strides into his bedroom, muttering under his breath.  “Damn it, Swan, please tell me you didn’t do what I think you just did.”  

She has.

She’s taken his car keys. In their place, there’s a post-it note, hastily scribbled but still wordy enough to fill both sides of the small yellow square.

**_I’m so sorry, but I know you were going to follow me to brunch.  I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about Walsh being willing to hurt someone, not if that someone could be you. I’ll call you when it’s over. Please don’t be angry. I love you. Emma_ **

He literally feels his teeth grinding as he screws the note into a tight ball and throws it at the nearest wall, her name a loving curse on his tongue.If she thinks a simple lack of transport might deter him, she’s greatly underestimated his determination to keep her safe. ****

~*~

The unfamiliar weight of Killian’s car keys is heavy on both her conscience and her jacket pocket as she maneuvers the Bug through the Sunday morning traffic, but she doesn’t regret her decision. She knows him, knows without a doubt that he was planning to come after her this morning, and she doesn’t want him anywhere near Galinda’s this morning.  

The tight knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach isn’t solely due to her meeting with Walsh. She’s spent the last fifteen minutes trying and failing not to think of Killian’s face when he’d realised she’d sneaked out of the apartment. She’d almost teared up writing that damned note, and her eyes blur hotly again now, making her blink furiously, her gaze trained on the road ahead.

Fuck, she _hated_ lying to him. She didn’t want to do it, not when she’s spent the last two years _living_ a lie. Thinking that Walsh loved her, that he’d never hurt her, that he was exactly the person he said he was. It had all been a lie, every single part of it, every single day (and night) they’d spent together.  

No, she didn’t want to like to Killian, but she wanted him safe, wanted him as far away from Walsh as possible.  Today, she intends to cut off that part of her life like the festering piece of crap that it was and throw it into the trash where it belongs.  Tomorrow, when she wakes up in Killian’s arms, it will be a brand new day, and _nothing_ is going to taint that for them.

(She can still _feel_ that last kiss on her lips.)

The universe obviously has an odd sense of humour this morning because, for the first time ever, she finds a parking space right outside the café.  She’s five minutes late, and she’s pretty sure her ‘date’ will already be waiting for her.  He’s trying to establish an alibi, and that means spending as much time as possible being seen by as many people as possible.

She closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths, mentally ticking off the bullet points of her last conversation with Kathryn before giving herself a quick pep talk.

_Get in, get it done, get out._

A few minutes later, she sees Walsh for the first time since learning the truth about him. He’s already seated at their usual table, his hand raised in a greeting, and from this short distance she can see he’s wearing the blue sweater she gave him for his birthday last year.

She’d expected to feel angry at seeing him, but the wave of white-hot fury that surges through her takes her by surprise, making her feet falter and her hand tighten on her purse. She hasn’t seen him wear that sweater in months. He’s probably wearing the aftershave she bought him for Christmas, too. _Bastard_ , she thinks darkly as she lifts her own hand to let him know she’s seen him. It’s as though he’s still trying to manipulate her emotions, even now.  

As though he can’t help himself.

She smiles (it actually hurts) and makes her way through the brunch crowd, her pulse quickening with every step she takes.  “Hey.”

Walsh flashes her a bashful smile, that one she’d once thought charming. “I have to admit, I was worried that you might have changed your mind.” He gets to his feet as she reaches the table, and she just _knows_ he’s going to kiss her cheek.  What’s more, she knows she’s going to let him, because she’s not supposed to be recoiling at his touch in disgust.  That said, she steps away quickly once it’s over, and doesn’t make any more to return the gesture.  

“And let you keep my Red Sox jersey?”  Her heart is hammering, but her voice is steady.  “You _wish_.”

“Touché.” He smiles as if he’s genuinely happy to see her, and maybe he is.  She’s giving him a watertight alibi for his movements this morning, after all. “Wow, you look great.” A flicker of sadness crosses his face, and she has to give him top marks for his acting skills so early on a Sunday. “It feels like a long time since I saw you last.”

“It’s been three days, one of which was Black Friday.” she can’t resist pointing out, but she keeps the teasing rebuke gentle, because that’s what friendly exes do, right? “Pretty sure you would have been _way_ too busy to miss me.”

“You know me,” he drawls with an easy smile that makes her want to punch him in the face. “I’m a multitasker.” He hands her a menu, taking exaggerated care not to let his fingertips brush hers. _Such a gentleman,_ she muses caustically. “Should we get the usual?” His dark gaze sweeps over her face, his tentative expression everything a well-behaved ex-boyfriend’s smile should be. “For old time’s sake?”

_Old time’s sake, her ass._

The familiar rush of adrenalin has begun to surge through her, sharpening her instincts and making her hands rock-steady. It seems Walsh is determined to set a tone of light-hearted banter for this charade of a brunch, and that’s totally fine with her.  The more relaxed he is, the longer he’ll stay at this table, which is exactly where she and Kathryn want him to be.

She smiles at him, the weight of Killian’s keys in her pocket suddenly feeling less like a guilty secret and more like a talisman, urging her on towards something much, much better.  ”Sure, why not?”

~*~

 


	13. Chapter 13

~*~

 

It takes him a moment to recover his equilibrium.   After all, it’s not every day that your new girlfriend steals your car keys in order to stop you from following her to a meeting with a drug-smuggling furniture store owner. 

As a sign that Emma truly doesn’t wish him to be present at her meeting with Walsh this morning, her sabotaging his usual mode of transport is a fairly clear one.   It’s more of a symbolic gesture than anything else (she knows he’d be perfectly capable of making his way there by other means, whether it by taxi or train, or even asking by asking Victor for a lift) and amidst his frustration, he can’t help admiring her style.  So much so that it almost seems a pity to foil her plans by using the spare set of keys he keeps in his room for any car-moving emergencies. 

He heads for his bedroom, where it takes him precisely thirty seconds to discover that Emma has purloined those as well, and he scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Very bad form, Swan,” he mutters to his absent girlfriend (lover? jailer?) as he stomps back to the bathroom, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards.  “Just you  _wait_ until David and Mary Margaret hear about this.”

Childish, he knows, but she does seem to have that effect on him at times.

He has the quickest shower in living history, more to clear his head more than anything else.  As he dresses, he consoles himself with the fact that at least she didn’t steal his house keys. The thought gives him sudden pause, and he quickly checks to makes sure he’s still in possession of said house keys.  He is, which reinforces the theory Emma wished to make a point, rather infringe on his civil liberties. 

All the same, he muses darkly as he sits on the edge of his bed to pull on his boots, he will be definitely devote some quality time to designing creative ways in which to exact his revenge.  The woman he loves might be endangering her emotional and physical wellbeing by meeting with a pathological liar over eggs and toast this morning, but never let it be said Killian Jones can’t find a silver lining in even the darkest of situations.

Before he can start planning all the delightful ways in which he canchastise Emma for her outrageous key-stealing behaviour, however, he needs to make a decision.

Either he can respect her wishes and stay far, far away from Galinda’s, or he can ease his own fears by hovering discreetly in the background, risking her wrath (and perhaps even their newly minted relationship) in the process.

Neither option is appealing, and indecision settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He runs a hand through his still damp hair, feeling a faint pounding in his temples that definitely been there when he’d woken this morning.  If he were in a more genial mood, he might even admire the irony that once again, he is bloody well dithering over Emma Swan. 

Apparently, some things  _never_  change.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Once the waitress has finished taking their order, Walsh reaches down beside his chair. “Well, maybe we should get the awkward part over with first.”

Emma’s reflexes twitch, relaxing a few seconds later when he hefts a bright yellow carry bag onto the table with a clunk.  It’s quirkily vintage and would probably cost one of his customers a small fortune, and she has the sinking feeling it’s a gift for her.

She’s right.

“I picked this one because it matched your car.” He taps his fingers against the side of the bag as he flashes her a wistful smile. “Wanna hear something funny? Every single thing you kept at my place fitted into one bag.”

“Oh.” Even if she didn’t know the truth about him, Emma thinks, this would still be one of the most uncomfortable moments of her adult life. She hesitates, wondering if the situation calls for an apology on her part, but he doesn’t give her the chance.

“I guess the signs were there all along,” he murmurs sadly.  “I just didn’t see them.”

Emma feels her gaze narrow. She might be doing this for the greater good as well as her own satisfaction, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to listen to this kind of tear-jerking conversation for the next hour.  Not when she knows the only regret he feels at their break-up is losing such a convenient human alibi.

“Thanks for bringing my things.” She hefts the bag onto the floor beside her own chair.  “I really like the yellow,” she adds as a hasty afterthought. It will be going in the trash once she gets home and empties it out, but right now she needs to play friendly exes.  “How was Friday?”

As usual, his eyes light up at the mention of his store. “Exhausting, but a great day revenue-wise.” 

Now that she knows the fervent gleam in his eyes isn’t just due to selling overpriced bits and pieces to gullible customers, his enthusiasm seems almost evangelistic, and she feels a shiver creep down her back.  Pasting a bright smile on her face, she traces the pattern on the sugar dispenser (it’s a converted mason jar, and she can almost  _hear_  Killian’s sneer in her head) with her fingernail. “Did you stay open all night?”

“We did this year, yes.” The question opens the floodgates for the usual anecdotes about customers and petty squabbles between his staff about their rosters and meal breaks.  Emma nods and smiles all the way through it, the weight of Killian’s keys still a comforting weight in her jacket pocket, every passing moment bringing her closer to the finishing line. 

The arrival of their food puts the one-sided conversation on hold for a few moments (banana chocolate chip pancakes for her, poached eggs with smashed avocado on sourdough for him), and Emma reaches for her coffee with eager hands.  A pang of guilt flickers through her yet again at the thought of Killian finding the kitchen empty and the packet of teabags abandoned, but she pushes it aside.  Later, she tells herself.  She will deal with that - and Killian - later.

“Dessert for breakfast,” Walsh murmurs fondly, sounding as though he’s an indulgent parent rather than her ex-lover.  “Nice to see that your love for _some_  things hasn’t changed.”

Emma can’t help wondering if he’s always been this passive aggressive and she just wasn’t paying enough attention.  “Well, it’s only been three days.”   She reaches for the small jug of maple syrup (another converted mason jar, she will definitely have to bring Killian here, if only to see the look on his face) and manages another detached smile.  “Next time I might decide the apple cinnamon is the way to go.”

A tiny frown draws his dark eyebrows together, as if trying to decide if she’s teasing him or just being flat-out sarcastic, then he reaches for his own coffee.  “There’ll be a next time?”

She knows the hope in his voice is all for show, and it makes lying to him that much easier.  “We’ll see. We’re friends, right?”

The smile he gives her as he picks up his knife and fork is almost bashful. “I sure hope so.”

All that’s missing is a sincere  _golly_ or  _gosh_ or even a  _shucks, ma’am,_ and a sudden memory flashes into her head.  She’d once overheard a conversation between David and Killian, not long after she’d started dating Walsh.  Killian had said something about  _a snake oil salesman,_ and David had laughed before shushing him and changing the subject to the football game they were about to watch. She hadn’t thought anything more about it at the time, but it occurs to her now that they must have been talking about Walsh.

(Killian had seen through Walsh’s nice-guy façade from the very start, but he hadn’t said a word for almost two years because he’d thought she was happy. If he forgives her for stealing his keys this morning, she’s going to make up for lost time like it’s her damned  _job_.)

In between bites of his poached eggs, Walsh starts telling her about the vintage canoe that’s just come into his store. Doing her best to look attentive, Emma forks a mouthful of pancake into her mouth. The food should be delicious, but right now it tastes like cardboard with a maple chaser.  As she picks at her food, she smiles and nods in all the right places, just as she had earlier, but Walsh doesn’t seem to notice (or care) that she’s not contributing anything to the conversation.

She didn’t think she could hate him any more than she already does, but it seems her life is full of surprises these days.

She hasn’t spotted Leroy, but she knows he’s here somewhere, and she has the feeling he’s enjoying his food a lot more than she is. Knowing Leroy, though, he’d be able to inhale a full English breakfast in the middle of a typhoon. He’d never let a small detail like taking down an ex-lover get in the way of a good breakfast.

The next hour is beyond painful, and she doesn’t know if it’s because the finish line is so close now or if she’s on tenterhooks waiting for Walsh’s cell phone to ring. As she sips her coffee – he’s now telling her about the antique bowling pins a new supplier brought in last week – she thinks about her last conversation with Kathryn, and her pulse quickens in anticipation.

_“According to my source, Felix Piper’s given them enough to get a warrant for Walsh’s financials and to search his place of business.”  Kathryn’s tone is brisk, no-nonsense, and Emma is grateful. “They could do both without getting him out of the way, but you keeping him at brunch, hopefully with no phone contact from Zelena Mills, will make things go a hell of a lot quicker and smoother.”_

_“You need me to keep him from answering his phone if it rings?”  Emma frowns.  “It’s Walsh.  He lives on that thing. How the hell am I supposed to do that?”_

_Kathryn smiles.  “You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”_

Almost as if she’d silently uttered some ancient incantation by merely remembering her conversation, a cell phone begins to ring.  It’s not Walsh’s phone, though.  It’s hers, and anticipation claws at her insides.  She knows it won’t be Killian, because this is a burner cell, and her real phone is safely tucked in the bottom of her purse, switched to silent.

There’s only one person who has this number, and it’s Kathryn.

She pulls a face as she fishes her phone out of her purse, as if there’s nothing she’d like more than to ignore the call and keep listening to his monologue. “It’s Mary Margaret.”  She manages to infuse her words with just the right amount of confusion. “I’d better take it. She and David are out of town for the weekend.” 

Irritation flashes in his eyes, then he blinks, leaving her wondering if she’d imagined it.  “Of course.”

She gives him a saccharine sweet smile, then answers the call. “Hello?”

Kathryn’s tone is both abrupt and reassuring, a feat at which the other woman seems to excel.  “Have you punched him in the face yet?”

Emma smiles. “Well, you  _are_  interrupting the best banana and choc chip pancakes in Boston, but that’s okay.  What’s up?”

“They’ve found enough to make an arrest.  You’re still at Galinda’s?”

“Neither of you took your house keys?  Seriously?”  Emma’s heart is pounding at the back of her throat, but she smiles into the phone as if Mary Margaret is truly at the other end. “Don’t worry, one of us will be home by six to let you in.”

They’ve done this verbal sleight of hand many times before, and she hears the smirk in Kathryn’s voice. “Two undercover cops will be there in ten minutes, Emma. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“See you tonight. Drive safe, okay?” Emma disconnects the call with an impressively steady thumb, then slides the burner cell back into her purse before Walsh has the chance to notice that it’s not her usual phone.  “Mary Margaret says hello and she’s sorry she interrupted our brunch.” 

“It’s all good, sweetheart.”  His face falls, and she studies him impassively as he does a damned good impersonation of a heartbroken man.  “I guess maybe I shouldn’t call you  _sweetheart_  anymore.”  Dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, he flicks his wrist to check his watch, then gives her a sad smile. “You know, I’m not sure this was the best idea, trying to be  _just friends_  so soon, not when I still care about you so much.”

The hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stand on end, because she would stake her next paycheck on the factthat he’s about to pull the pin on this façade of a brunch.  Whatever is happening in his sordid little world this morning, it seems it’s time for him to join the party.

 _Well, that’s just too bad_ , she thinks determinedly. She needs ten more minutes of his time, and she knows exactly how she’s going to spend them.

“I’d still like to try. It would be a really nice change to stay friends with someone I dated.” She reaches across the table, curling her hand gently around his wrist in a gesture that could be seen as reassuring by the untrained eye. In reality, she plans to make it as socially awkward as possible for him to run back to Zelena and her cronies before the cops arrive.  “Did I ever tell you about Neal?”

“I believe you’ve mentioned him once or twice.”  Walsh clears his throat, then reaches for his water glass with his free hand.  “I might be a glutton for punishment by asking you to brunch, but do we really have to talk about your old boyfriends too?”

She ignores his protest, feeling as though she’s just started the last mile of a marathon race. “I met Neal four months before I was due to move to Boston to start college.”  She gives her ex-lover a faintly embarrassed smile. “I was still living in Portland then and, well, you already know all about my turbulent teenage years, as Mary Margaret likes to call them.”    

His hand isn’t twitching in her grasp yet, but she knows it won’t be long. “Yes, a very sad start in life for such a pretty girl.”

With an effort, Emma bites back the harsh words (and the accompanying punch to the face) demanding to make themselves heard.   _Jerk._ “I’d weaned myself off the shoplifting mostly by then, but one afternoon I had no cash and a craving for pop tarts.”  She flashes him a quick look. “You know how it is.” 

“Not really, but I can imagine.”

The obvious annoyance in his tone has Emma biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect he was starting to think that having an alibi for this morning wasn’t worth what he was going through.

“Well, that was the day I almost got busted shoplifting a packet of pop tarts from a convenience store and Neal covered for me.”  It’s been a long time she’s told anyone this story, and it seems she’s still not immune to the hollow churning in her stomach that it always brings.  “Turned out he’d already stolen more than enough candy for both of us.”

Walsh’s eyes widen. “How romantic.”

“I thought it was at the time.”   _No lie there_ , she thinks. “Anyway, he was two years older than me, and he just seemed really cool.  Nothing ever bothered him, you know?”

Walsh’s gaze slides sideways, and she knows he’s looking for a waitress to ask for the check.  Luckily for Emma, the service at Galinda’s is always notoriously uneven, to say the least. “I believe I know the type.”

“Long story short, we were inseparable for four months, then I left for college.”  It’s funny how matter-of-fact she can sound while reciting this now, if she’s telling a story about someone else, another girl whose heart was broken into so many pieces she didn’t think she’d ever be able to find them all again. “We said our teary goodbyes and he promised he’d come and visit me when he could.” 

Walsh sighs as he stops trying to catch a staff member’s eye, apparently resigning himself to his fate.  “Again, very romantic.”

“Ah, but that’s not the end of the story. He moved to Boston the week I started college, and everything was great for a couple of months.”  She strokes her thumb over his wrist, managing not to shudder at the feel of his skin beneath her touch. “And then it all went wrong.” 

His hand twitches beneath hers, but he doesn’t pull away.  “What happened?”

“He got me a job.”

Walsh’s expression flicks from boredom to sudden interest, and she knows she’s hooked him.  He’s probably expecting to hear a story of teenage pole dancing, and she’s not at all sorry that she’s going to disappoint him.  “One weekend, his Dad came to town to see him, and by the time he’d left, both Neal and I had casual jobs in a jewelry store downtown.”

He leans forward in his seat, his dark gaze trained on her face. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard this part of your history.”

“I know.”  She lets go of his wrist, because he seems to have decided to stick around at least long enough to hear the end of her story.  Somehow, she manages not to wipe her hand on her skirt. “I don’t like to talk about my time there, to be honest.”

“It must have been a terrible place to work.” His wide mouth twitches in a cool smile. “Although, to be fair, that’s not always the boss’ fault.”

Her right hand tingles with the urge to slap that smug smile right off his face. “The owner was a business associate of Neal’s father, and he dealt in antique estate jewelry, that sort of thing.” It’s been ten years, and her stomach still contracts at the thought of what she’s about to tell him. “I was just happy to have a steady part-time job that didn’t involve delivering pizza or handing out fliers.”

“Very understandable.”

“I’d been working there for about three months when this little old lady brings in these five civil war-era watches.”   She sees a spark of fascination come to life in Walsh’s dark eyes.  He’d never once looked at  _her_  that way, she thinks. “They were  _beautiful_.” 

“I’m sure they were.”

“They’d belonged to her husband.  He’d died a few years back, and she’d finally decided she could let go of some of his stuff.”  Emma can still see those watches, gleaming silver beneath the soft overhead lights.  “They had this policy at the store with deceased estate stuff, that there was a forty-eight cooling off period.  You know, in case the grieving relatives change their minds.”

“Yes, that’s quite a standard practice.”

He’s back to sounding bored now, and Emma amps up her pace. “Anyway, the woman came back the next afternoon and said she’d changed her mind.  The boss went to get them for her, but the watches were gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone.”  Even now, the word feels flat and empty on her tongue. “Vanished right out of the safe.”  She shrugs, but her heart is racing, because this is almost over. “I’d been the one who’d locked up the night before, so of course, everyone looked at me.”

“Did you take them?”

She stares at him.  “No.”

It’s his turn to shrug, holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey, you can hardly blame me for asking, given your light-fingered history.”

She knows he’s simply amusing himself by goading her, his own little private joke, and she reins in her temper. “They had no evidence, but the owner of the store and Neal’s dad were set on proving that I’d been the one who stolen them.  I had the cops come to my place with a trumped up search warrant, tossing things around my dingy little room, making me feel like lower than dirt.”  She lets her mouth curve in a smile. “They didn’t find anything, of course.”

She pauses, surreptitiously checking her watch out of the corner of her eye.  _Three more minutes_.  “The next day, Neal came over and begged me to tell anyone who asked that he’d been at my place the night the watches had gone missing.” 

_“Just tell them I was with you, okay?”_

_She stares at him, the dawning realisation of the truth a dull, burning hurt in the middle of her chest. “But you weren’t.”_

_He gives her a pleading smile, his hand heavy on her shoulder. “I know that, but they don’t. Just do this one thing for me, Em, will ya?”_

There’s a sudden lump in her throat, and she has to swallow twice before she speaks.  “In case you were wondering, Neal had stolen them. By the time the little old woman had come back the next afternoon, he’d already fenced them through one of his new Boston buddies.”

“Fast work.”

There’s a note of something in Walsh’s voice that sounds like admiration, and Emma curls her fingernails into her palms. “Neal wasn’t scared of the cops so much, but his father was a different story.  Anyway, I decided I didn’t want to lie to the police, so when they asked, I told them the truth, which was that I hadn’t seen Neal at all that night.”

A flicker of discomfort dances across Walsh’s face. “You did the right thing.”

“It didn’t matter in the end, because his father paid the old woman a fuck-ton of cash to shut up and go away.” She sees Walsh wince at her choice of words, and hides a grim smile.  “His dad had it all swept under the rug, and Neal was never charged.”  She flicks her fingernail against the sugar container one last time, then looks at Walsh.

“Oh, and I was dismissed without a letter of recommendation or even the wages I was owed.”  There’s a very good reason she never discusses this with anyone. The injustice of it all still stings, even a decade later.  “I told Neal I never wanted to see him again, and that was it.” 

Walsh frowns, his dark brows knitted in confusion. “That’s a terrible thing to have happened to you, sweetheart, but I don’t know why you’re telling it to me now.”

Her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs, she smiles at him.  “Don’t you?”

His dark gaze locks with hers.  Despite the tension coiling in the pit of her stomach, she lifts her chin and meets his eyes steadily.  The silence stretches between them and, just when she thinks he’s not going to break character, he smiles.

It’s a smile she’s never seen before, and it literally puts a chill in her blood, like turning over a rock and finding something dark and crawling, skittering towards you. 

“You know, it’s too bad.” His tone is filled with both irritation and regret. “I actually kind of liked you.”  He pulls the white napkin off his lap, tossing it onto the table. “Good sex is always  _such_  a bonus in these sorts of situations.”

It’s a very neat way of implying that she’s nothing more than one in a long line of gullible women in his bed.  It’s a barb that’s designed to sting, and maybe it would if she still felt the smallest scrap of affection for him.  “I guess.” Leaning back in her chair, Emma folds her arms across her chest.  Her hands are cold as she tucks them against her sides, but she feels strangely calm. “Just between you and me, though, I’ve had better.”

His expression stills, something dangerous flickering in his eyes, and she holds her breath, more than willing to reach for the taser tucked into the purse at her feet. Then he smiles, lifting his water glass to her in a mocking toast. “Well, this has been a  _wonderful_ trip down memory lane, sweetheart, but I really should get back to work.”

“Come on, don’t go yet.” She returns his smile.  “We haven’t had the chance to talk about your buddy Zelena.”

His gaze narrows, but his smile doesn’t falter. “If this is going to be the last time we see each other, why don’t we discuss  _your_ friends?  Dealing with all _your_  insecurities was bad enough, but I seriously think I should be congratulated for putting up with those foolsas long as I did.”  He sips his coffee, his dark eyes watching her over the rim of his cup. “The dullard who thinks he can save every pathetically unwanted animal in Boston.  The school teacher who believes in the power of positive thinking and unicorn stickers.” 

“Is this supposed to be hurting my feelings?”  She smirks at him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Because I have to tell ya, I’m not feeling it.”

“And we can’t forget the bleeding heart divorce lawyer who sees himself as a white knight for downtrodden women.” He gives her a smile that makes a shiver slide down her back. “He certainly didn’t come to  _your_  rescue, did he?”

The anger that suddenly burns through her catches her off-guard, and she blurts out a defiant answer before she can swallow it down. “Actually, that’s where you’re wrong.”

Walsh stares at her, then he starts to laugh, a hollow, empty sound. “So you _finally_  let the lovesick fool fuck you, did you?” 

Somehow she manages not to flinch, and he shakes his head. “Jesus, he must have  _wet_  himself with excitement when you ditched me for daring to propose to you.”

Her whole body is humming with fury, but she isn’t going to give him any more ammunition for his ridiculous mind games. “Yeah, let’s talk about that proposal. I couldn’t figure it out at first, because it would be pretty hard to carry on illicit importing deals and cozy chats with your pickpocketing gang with a wife hanging around.” She puts one finger on the edge of her empty plate, spinning it on the spot slowly as she stares at him.  “But then I worked it out.”

His expression is a study of bafflement. “I have  _no_  idea what you’re talking about, my darling. I asked you to marry me because I wanted to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

If she wasn’t so focused on getting through this, she might gag a little at his words. He obviously thinks she’s wearing a wire, and she’s not about to put his mind at ease.  She’s got to hand it to him, he hasn’t said a single thing so far that can’t be chalked up to his status as a broken-hearted jilted lover.  It doesn’t matter.  She doesn’t care if he’s tight-lipped. In fact, his reticence might even make these last few minutes more enjoyable.

“You were worried about losing your steady alibi girl.  You knew that I didn’t want to move in with you, you knew I wasn’t happy, so you psychoanalyzed me in your head, came up with a diagnosis of abandonment issues, and thought that a big romantic gesture might convince me to stick around.”

Walsh grins, and she realises with distaste that he’s enjoying her display of anger.  “You know, I used to think it was cute that you liked to play at being a cop with your gun and your taser and your handcuffs.”  He sounds as though he’s about to pat her on the head and tell her to hurry on home. “But I really don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve here with this plucky girl detective routine.”

Letting out a long breath, she smiles at him. “Felix Piper was arrested yesterday in connection with a break and enter at the home of one of Zelena Mills’ former clients.”  His jaw clenches, just for an instant, and she feels her smile widen. “But you probably already know that.”

He frowns, his mild-mannered store owner mask firmly back in place. “Sorry, I don’t believe I know Felix.”

“Really?” She allows herself her own moment of exaggerated confusion. “That’s so weird, because he knows  _you_. In fact, a little bird told me that he’s been  _very_  forthcoming when it comes to naming his associates.”

“Whoever he is, he sounds like completely amoral opportunist.” Walsh says the words softly, like they’re a freaking endearment.  “However, I’m not sure why you’d think I’d care about some drivel a petty thief might spew in a desperate attempt to make a deal.”

Over Walsh’s shoulder, she sees two men who have  _plain clothes detective_ written all over them heading discreetly towards their table.  Behind them, she sees the familiar, stocky outline of Leroy, loitering discreetly just inside the door. “Well, I might have overhead this wrong, but I  _think_  that petty thief might have spewed enough drivel for the cops to get a warrant to check your financials and search your store while you were here having brunch with me.”

Walsh’s face darkens like a storm cloud, the benign mask finally falling away for good. “Well. Look who’s turned out to be quite the little bitch.” His voice is as softly dangerous as acid hissing on flesh, but she’s not afraid, not of him.

“Takes one to know one, I guess.” Getting to her feet, she smiles down at him as she picks up her half-empty water glass. “By the way, your store  _sucks_.” 

It’s been a while since she’s dumped a drink in a man’s lap, but it seems that there are some things you never forget. 

Walsh is still spluttering, water dripping over his dark trousers, his eyes glowing with anger, when the two Boston PD detectives frame his chair in a broad-shouldered display of authority.  “Walsh Green?”

Emma slips away, suddenly wanting to be a million miles away despite the temptation of seeing her ex-boyfriend bitch-slapped by karma.  She passes Leroy as she passes the wait station, where he gives her a gruff (and sober) thumbs-up.  She has no doubt he’s already taken care of the check and is hanging around to smooth any ruffled feathers Walsh’s arrest might cause.

The first thing she notices as she pushes her way out into the outside world is that someone (aka the Boston Police department) has double-parked beside the Bug, effectively stopping her from leaving.   

The second thing she notices is that Killian is leaning against her car, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

 

~*~

 

He’s a patient man.

He’d pulled a hundred all-nighters during college, sat through a multitude of tedious trials and court appearances in his career.  He’s even waited all night outside a department store two years running in order to join in the glut of Thanksgiving consumerism. 

He knows how to wait.

The last eighty minutes, however, have been the most excruciating of his life.  The taxi ride to Galinda’s, the pacing back and forth (carefully positioned so as not to be seen by any diners inside) to try and work off his nervous energy, the knowledge that Emma is sitting at a cozy table with a revolting excuse for a human being. 

It’s been almost enough to drive a man to drink.

(Thankfully, he makes it a rule never to drink in the morning.  Except St Patrick’s Day, of course.  Oh, and Christmas morning, if he’s staying with Liam and Annie.  And then there’s Mardis Gras, can’t forget about that.)

Aware that his thoughts are in danger of becoming rambling and nonsensical, he takes a deep breath and checks his watch for what feels like the hundredth time since leaving the apartment.  Given what Emma had initially told him of the plan, he surmises that it can’t be too much longer until she (and the authorities) deliver the  _coup de grace_ , and impatience claws at his chest. 

Yes, he knows how to wait, especially when it comes to Emma Swan, but  _this_ is pushing him to his limit.

Time and again, he finds himself coming back to linger near Emma’s car, drawn to it like a magnet.  He has to confess, he’d been relieved to see it parked outside Galinda’s when he’d had the taxi do an initial drive-by.  Given this morning’s key-stealing incident, he wouldn’t have been completely surprised if she’d told him the wrong restaurant in an effort to keep him at bay. 

(He might be in love, but he’s not a complete idiot.)

At ten minutes past eleven, he’s finally put out of his misery, although later he will acknowledge he was somewhat premature in assuming his misery was over for the day.

A heavy-set bearded man appears in the doorway of Galinda’s. Unlike the other painfully hip patrons Killian’s seen going into the café, his facial hair is no affectation. He’s dressed as though he’s come straight from felling trees in the deepest forests of Canada, right down the woolen cap and plaid flannel, and Killian has the sudden thought that all that’s missing is an axe.   The man’s pale blue eyes sweep the immediate area, lingering on Killian for a disconcertingly long time before focusing on a point over his shoulder.

Doing his best to look as though he’s engrossed in his phone (idiotic birds), Killian hears the sound of a car pulling up beside Emma’s bug, then the sound of two doors slamming.  

Two tall (he wants to say  _burly_ , but he fears that will only label him as hopelessly old-fashioned, as Emma has so often told him) and officious looking fellows stride purposefully towards the bearded forest-dweller, where they have a short but intense conversation to one side of Galinda’s entrance.  Killian finds himself holding his breath as it suddenly dawns on him that the man must be Emma’s occasional colleague Leroy, and that the cavalry has indeed arrived. 

He slips his phone into his jacket pocket and leans against the hood of Emma’s car to adopt his best casual pose, an almost impossible feat given the tension stretching his nerves.  When the two suited men push open the glass door to Galinda’s and slip inside, it’s all he can do not to follow.  As if sensing the impulse, the bearded man turns to stare at him, his face set in a scowl. “What you are staring at, pal?”

Killian raises both hands in supplication.  “Nothing, I assure you.”

His accent seems to further offend the man (if it is indeed Leroy, he now understands Emma’s reluctance to work with him on a regular basis), and the scowl deepens. “That’s right, pretty boy, there’s  _nothing_  to see. You got that?”

 _Extraordinary,_  Killian thinks with grim amusement.  Who would have thought that the main threat to his personal safety would come from someone on the same side?   “Understood.”

Leroy vanishes through the entrance of Galinda’s and precisely ten seconds later, Emma is pushing the door open. She looks pale but triumphant, and the relief that sweeps through him has him temporarily forgetting that he’s definitely  _not_ supposed to be here.

She sees him, and a kaleidoscope of emotion dances across her face.  Her initial smile vanishes, quickly replaced by a scowl that almost rivals Leroy’s grumpy countenance. “What you are doing here?”

It’s not as though he’d been expecting a tender embrace, but outright hostility so early on a Sunday isn’t exactly what he’d had in mind, either.  “A dashing rescue?”

She shoots him a glare that might wither a lesser man. “Try again, Jones.”

“Moral support?”

Her mouth set in an unhappy line, she stares at the double-parked car. “I asked you not to come.”

She sounds faintly defeated, and guilt surges through him. “I know.”

His admission seems to light a spark inside her. She draws in a sharp breath, turning to fix him with a cool stare. “So that’s how this works? I ask you not to do something, and you go right ahead and do it anyway?”

He opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal, but he has no argument to give her. She’s completely right, after all.  “Like I said last night, love, I only wanted to help.”

She’s suddenly right in front him, her beautiful face only inches from his. “And like  _I_  said,  _love,_  this was something I needed to do by myself.”   She presses her lips together, her eyes suddenly glittering. “Why couldn’t you have just trusted me?”

Suddenly, his usual calming trick of counting to ten is no help whatsoever, and he returns her heated glare with one of his own. “Like you trusted me when you stole both sets of my car keys?”

She rolls her eyes, and he can feel the anger radiating from her, as surely as if her skin is glowing with it.  “That’s a  _bullshit_ comparison and you know it.”

He stares at her unhappily. Unlike their last public argument, he has the feeling this one isn’t going to end in a romantic clinch in the middle of the street.   “I’m sorry, Swan.”  The words feel thick and clumsy in his mouth.  “All I wanted was to -”

“Awww. You two are  _adorable._ ”

The mocking tone is something new, but he’d know that snake oil salesman’s voice anywhere.  He and Emma turn in unison to see Walsh being steered towards the gap between the yellow bug and the vehicle in front.  He’s in handcuffs with a plain-clothes detective on either side of him, which is an immensely pleasing sight. Less pleasing is the disdainful glee on his face as he looks at Emma. 

“You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one, Jones.”  Walsh’s simian features are aglow with malice, and Killian feels a little sick at the sight.  “You know what they say about street trash - you can never quite get the stink off you after you’ve rolled in it.”

Emma recoils at the words, as surely as if the bastard had actually struck her, and a red haze of fury blurs everything in Killian’s head but one all-consuming instinct. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Emma shouting his name in a panicked voice, telling him  _no_ and  _don’t_  but he doesn’t care.  All it takes is two steps across the pavement, and his fist is slamming into Walsh’s jaw.

Bedlam.

Male voices shouting, a bearded dwarf dragging him backwards, Walsh’s eyes almost black with fury. Then Emma is there, shoving him behind her, back towards her car, then her hands are in the air, soothing words tumbling from her mouth.

They’re not for him, though. She’s talking to the cops, and as far as he can make out through the dull throbbing in his hand and the roar of his pulse in his ears, she’s pleading with them not to arrest him as well. 

Walsh is quickly hauled off and installed in the back of the cop car by the shorter of the two detectives, the little weasel shouting something about pressing charges for assault every step of the way. Killian leans against the yellow bug, his hand cradled against his chest, watching in silence as Emma talks to the other cop, her voice low and urgent. 

(He suspects she’s telling them all manner of lies about his fragile mental state in order to keep them from clapping him in irons. Or perhaps she’s shamelessly name-dropping Kathryn’s contact in the department. Either way, she will be furious he’s put her in this position, and he knows he’s just made the situation between them a thousand times worse.)

Finally, after given him a stare that could freeze Hell over, the cop nods (albeit reluctantly) and makes his way to his car.  Killian heaves a sigh of abject relief, watching as Emma confers with Leroy for a few minutes.  Finally, Leroy saunters off towards a beat up truck parked on the other side of the street, and Killian is finally left alone with Emma.

As she turns and walks in his direction, he decides to take the bull by the horns, figuratively speaking. “I’m sorry.”  He tries to smile, but suspects he doesn’t quite manage it. “Again.”

She sidesteps him neatly, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to hear it.”

His chest feels tight, regret seeming to sear his every breath. “I couldn’t let him speak about you that way.”

She digs in her purse for her car keys, her movements jerky.  “I don’t have time to argue with you about this.” Her face is mottled, her eyes brimming with tears as she wrenches open the driver’s side door. “I have to meet Kathryn at the office, and then I have to somehow convince Walsh not to press charges against you.”

He winces.  He knew going in that he’d probably be finding his own way home, and that’s fine, because it was his decision to come here this morning, but he can’t bear to let her leave with so much left unsaid between them. “Emma,  _please_.” 

“Just go home, Killian.” 

“Swan, please, I really think we should-”

She glares at him over the roof of her car, her eyes flashing green fire. “Can you for  _once_  justdo as I say?”

The lawyer in him can’t leave well enough alone, something that’s landed him in trouble on more than one occasion, but this might just be the worst. “Today’s events aside, I think I’ve been pretty bloody obedient so far, love.”

She closes her eyes, her head tilting in a tiny shake, then she finds his eyes with hers.  “The detective I was just talking to?  He only wanted to arrest you.”  He’d open his mouth to speak, but the fear (and yes, anger) in her voice stays his tongue.  “The other one had been literally seconds away from drawing his weapon on you.”

He stares at her. His hand is throbbing, but it’s nothing compared to the pain he sees glittering in her eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

(He wonders how many times he’ll have to say it before she forgives him.)

“I know you are.”  Her voice is flat, almost cold, as she pulls her sunglasses from her purse and slips them on, hiding her eyes from him.  “But being sorry doesn’t change the fact that I thought I was about to watch you get arrested or fucking  _shot_.”  Her voice catches on the last word, and he feels her fear digging like a bloody fish hook in his heart.  “You shouldn’t have come.”

She climbs behind the wheel, slamming the door behind her and gunning the engine before he barely has the chance to formulate a coherent reply.  He watches in silence as she pulls away from the curb with a screech, and seriously contemplates smacking himself in the head with his good hand.

“Well,  _fuck._ ”

After this cheery pronouncement, he checks his watch.  It’s still too early to start drinking, he admits reluctantly.  Perhaps Emma is right and he should just go home.  He certainly should put some ice on his blasted hand, that’s for sure. 

 _The one time this morning he’s following orders,_  he thinks,  _and she’s not here to witness it._

If he didn’t feel like someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart very tightly, he might actually laugh.

He doesn’t feel like very much like laughing this morning.

Behind him, he hears the glass door of the café open and close.  He turns to see a teenaged girl bearing both a hesitant expression and a large yellow bag.  She’s also wearing a blouse with  _Galinda’s_ embroidered on the pocket which, according to his exquisite powers of deduction, would make her one of the waitresses.  “Has the blonde lady gone? The one you were just talking to?”

“Yes.”

She hesitates, then swings the yellow bag forward by its handles. “She left this behind.”

Killian eyes the bag warily.  It’s hideous, to be sure, and he’s fairly certain it’s never once graced the inside of his apartment.   “Are you sure it’s hers?”

“I think so.”  The girl bites her bottom lip, then gestures towards where the police car had been parked. “Her date gave it to her before, um -”

“Before he was arrested,” Killian supplies cheerfully, and she looks relieved. 

“That’s right.”

He has no wish to be an inadvertent delivery boy for that prick Walsh, but if this bag truly is Emma’s, he will see it safely home. “I’ll make sure she gets it, lass.”

The waitress considers him with the same suspicion he’d just bestowed upon the bright yellow bag, and he realises that if she’d seen him talking to Emma, she would have also seen them arguing. “You  _are_  friends with her?”

“I am.” Killian swallows hard. He dearly hopes they’re still a lot more than that, but this is neither the time nor the place. “She’s my housemate, actually.” 

Relief smooths the frown from the girl’s forehead. “Great!” She holds the bag out to him, and Killian awkwardly takes it with his left hand, almost fumbling the exchange. 

She stares at the hand cradled against his chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine, love.”  He glances down at his right hand, inwardly wincing at the knuckles that are red and rapidly swelling. The sodding bastard obviously has a granite jaw to go with his heart of stone, he muses darkly, then he gives the girl what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing a little ice won’t fix.”

She scurries back inside, obviously pleased to have discharged her responsibility for the bag, leaving Killian alone with the unhappy wish that _all_ his problems might be so easily solved.  Turning on his heel, he heads for the nearest taxi rank, the sound of Emma shouting his name (God, the fear in her voice) replaying on a loop in his head. 

Perhaps it’s not too early for a drink after all.

 

~*~

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT the final chapter. Just in case anyone is wondering. :)

~*~

 

She barely remembers driving to the office to meet Kathryn. She’s vaguely aware of checking for traffic as she changes lanes. She doesn’t speed, she makes all the correct turns and she doesn’t run any red lights.

Anything else, though, is little more than a blur, because all she’s doing is replaying the same ten seconds over and over again. The longest ten seconds of her life, when she’d thought Killian was going to be on the receiving end of a nervous detective’s bullet.

Killian moving past her, too fast for her to grab his arm. Shouting his name, the words tearing at her throat like glass as he swings his right arm with unmistakable intent.

Walsh staggering backwards against the cops escorting him as Killian’s fist connect with his face, then his satisfied sneer, his eyes glowing with triumph even as he twitches his jaw from side to side.

Then, as if in slow motion, she’d seen the cop reach for his holster, and she’d known things were about to get very, very bad. In that instant, she’d felt as though her feet were frozen to the pavement, her legs incapable of moving. It had been like being caught in a nightmare, that moment when the bad guy was almost upon you and you were trying to scream but nothing came out.

Somehow, she’d found her voice.

_No! Wait, it’s okay, he’s with me._

Pushing Killian behind her, telling herself that she doesn’t care about him stumbling backwards from the force of her shove, her pulse roaring in her head as she holds up her hands, blocking the cop’s line of sight.

_Please, it’s okay. I’m sorry. He’s with me. I take full responsibility for his actions._

Her brain had frantically scrambled for the name of Kathryn’s contact at the department, the high-up cop who’d been such good buddies with her late father. Finally, she’d managed to mention the guy’s name, not once but several times, pulling out every wheedling trick in her personal bag of tricks to get them to relax, get the cop to take his hand away from his fucking holster and stand down.

Finally, _finally,_ it had worked.

She’d kept talking though, even when it was clear Killian was in no physical danger, because they’d started throwing around words like _assault_ and _arrest_ and she couldn’t let that happen, she wasn’t going to let them take him.

(Walsh hadn’t stopped smirking the entire time, even when he was bitching loudly about pressing charges, and Emma had never hated him more than she had in that moment.)

Her frequent mentions of Kathryn’s contact had eventually paid off, and the cops had reluctantly departed with only one prisoner in tow. With great satisfaction, Emma had watched them shove Walsh into the back of their car, then she’d turned to Leroy, thanking him for his backup and promising to buy him a drink sometime.

All the while, she’d felt Killian’s eyes almost burning a hole in the back of her denim jacket. A little voice inside her head had told her that if she kept him waiting long enough, maybe he’d take the hint and disappear. He hadn’t, of course. That’s never been his style.

She manages to pull into the parking lot of Midas Bonds before she loses the battle with her tears. The Bug shudders to a stop and she yanks on the handbrake before dashing at her wet eyes with the heels of her palms.

She doesn’t want to remember the words she’d said to him. She’d been _so_ angry; it had been like watching herself have a meltdown from a distance.

But it wasn’t just that he’d completely ignored her request for him to stay away that had made her furious. She’s lived a lifetime of foster homes, hanging out on the streets and tailing violent douchebags for a career, and she’d never felt more frightened than she had when that cop had reached for his gun.

She might want to punch Killian in the face herself right now, but the thought of him being hurt (or worse, _God_ ) makes her stomach churn and her eyes burn and her hands clench into fists.

She takes a shaky breath, then another, drawing the air deep into her lungs, listening to the sound of it, trying to stop her heart from feeling like a trapped bird banging against her ribs.

(She’ll stop being angry at some point, but she knows she’ll never forget those ten seconds when she thought she might lose him.)

Emma drops her forehead to the steering wheel, feeling the worn leather pinch against her skin, still concentrating on her breathing.

She’d forgotten this part of being in love. Forgotten that it could tear at your heart and your head and paralyze you with fear when you realise how just much you’ve got to lose. Falling in love with Killian Jones might have turned out to be everything she’s ever wanted but right now, it fucking _sucks_.

 

~*~

 

Much to her relief, Kathryn isn’t unsympathetic.

When she arrives at her desk, there’s a chilled can of Japanese beer beside her keyboard, along with an obscenely oversized candy bar. Kathryn often shows support via the contents of the fridge in her office, and while Emma normally wouldn’t mix beer and chocolate, she might be prepared to make an exception this morning.

When she drops her purse onto the floor beside her desk, her boss’ voice drifts out from the corner office. “All out of champagne, sorry.”

Emma sinks into her chair. “It’s okay.”

“At least it’s imported.” Kathryn appears in the doorway of her office, then walks slowly across the room to perch on the edge of Emma’s desk. “After all, it’s not every day you help your ex get arrested and keep your new guy out of the slammer all in one hit.”

Emma feels her face grow hot. It seems that Leroy has beaten her to the punch - no pun intended – when it comes to what unfolded during the last few minutes of the job. Or maybe it was the arresting cops. Either way, Kathryn is looking at her expectantly, and Emma knows her boss is waiting for a full rundown.

So she gives it to her, every tiny detail of her conversation with Walsh, right down to the glass of water dumped in his lap. Kathryn’s eyes light up at that, but she says nothing until Emma’s finished her report. “Nice work.” Her boss purses her lips thoughtfully, tilting her head towards the police report on the desk. “I’m afraid Zelena Mills is in the wind.”

“Shit.” Emma frowns. “Walsh had _no_ contact with her while he was with me, I’d swear to it.”

“She may have had someone watching Galdina’s.” Kathryn makes herself more comfortable on the edge of Emma’s desk, stretching her legs out in front of her, her Prada-clad ankles neatly crossed. “However, our job was to facilitate the arrest of Walsh Green, and I’d say that’s mission accomplished.” Her light blue eyes meet Emma’s. “He wants to press charges against your housemate, I’m afraid.”

Emma’s heart plummets to the pit of her stomach. “I thought he might.”

The other woman raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t Killian a lawyer?”

“Yep.”

“What on _earth_ was he thinking?”

“That’s easy,” Emma mutters as she rips open the candy bar wrapper. “He wasn’t.”

“So he just up and punched a handcuffed man in the face for no reason, knowing that he was risking being arrested himself?”

She can almost feel the weight of Kathryn’s gaze, and has to fight the urge to squirm. “He objected to something Walsh said,” she admits reluctantly, staring at the chocolate bar in her hands. “Something about me being street trash.”

(She’s being deliberately vague, but she’ll never forget the words that oozed from Walsh’s lips.)

She looks up in time to see a shrewd gleam come into Kathryn’s eyes. “Ah.”

“What do you mean, ah?”

Her boss merely gives her a knowing smile as she reaches for the can of beer, popping the tab with a graceful flick of her finger. “Defending your honour, was he?”

Emma inwardly winces at Kathryn’s choice of words. Saying it like _that_ only makes her feel worse about the conversation she’d had with Killian outside Galinda’s. She snaps the candy bar in two. “Yeah.”

Kathryn takes the piece of chocolate Emma is offering her, handing over the can of beer in exchange. “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”

Emma nods as Sapporo beer mingles with Hershey’s on her tongue, shocking her taste buds. “Since college.”

The other woman smiles, and there’s suddenly a warmth in her manner that Emma usually only sees when she talks about her husband or her kids. “And how long has he been in love with you?”

Emma stares at her, her face suddenly feeling as though it’s on fire, then decides there’s no point in lying or dancing around the truth. It’s not as though she has to keep it a secret anymore. “Since college.”

The other woman’s gaze is steady and _way_ too perceptive for Emma’s liking. “And you?”

Again, Emma tells herself there’s no point in hiding the truth anymore. “The same, I guess.”

Kathryn shakes her head, still smiling, then devours her share of the chocolate in three bites. When it’s gone, she swipes another long sip of the beer, then pats Emma on the shoulder. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll speak to the powers that be at the BPD. See what I can do to keep your knight in shining armor from being formally charged.”

Hope flutters through Emma, and she gives the other woman a quick smile. “You’d do that?”

“Well, he did show extremely poor judgment, but let me share a small piece of wisdom with you.” Rising from her spot on the edge of Emma’s desk, her boss nods at the case file. “It’s not often you find a man who’s willing to go to jail for you.”

Kathryn heads for her office, leaving Emma to drop her head into her hands, her eyes closed, her head suddenly swimming. The adrenalin that had sustained her through the encounter with Walsh has faded now, leaving her feeling tired, her sense of triumph more than a little hollow.

Thinking of her boss’ parting words, her heart clenches. She’d only caught a quick glimpse of the outrage on Killian’s face as he’d stepped up to confront Walsh, but she has no doubt that he _had_ been prepared to go to jail for her.

Nothing about her life with Walsh had been real, but Killian is very different story. They might have spent years denying the truth of what was between them, but what she’s had with him over the years has always been real.

Real friendship, real love, all of it real messy and honest and fucking terrifying if she lets herself think about it too hard.

But she wants it. All of it.

She wants _him_ , with all his ridiculous notions of chivalry and protecting her heart (even it’s from him, all those years of not telling her how he really felt about her) and his terrible jokes and the way he makes her feel like she’s truly happy in her own life for the first time.

And she had left him standing on the street, his blue eyes filled with the kind of tortured guilt that it can take a lifetime to forget.

_I couldn’t let him speak about you that way._

Even though she _knows_ she hasn’t missed any calls or messages, she pulls her phone from her jacket pocket with a faint sense of hope, her spirits sinking when she finds absolutely nothing. Killian’s obviously decided that radio silence is the safest course of action, and she can’t say she blames him.

She fidgets with her phone, torn between making the first move and wanting to wait until they can reconnect in person. She hesitates for a long moment, then puts her phone aside. She doesn’t want to have that conversation via text message.

Booting up her computer, she tells herself that she can be home in a couple of hours and they can put the first half of the day behind them and start over. Thinking of his stricken expression as she’d dived into her car like a perp fleeing the scene of a crime, she winces.

If he’s still talking to her, that is.

 

~*~

 

“Bollocks.”

Doing his best to ignore the ache in his right hand, he checks the kitchen pantry a second time, then stomps into the living room to check the buffet. Unfortunately, the situation is as dire as he feared.

There’s no rum.

He’s not normally the kind of man who drinks rum at noon on a Sunday, but it’s been a remarkably trying day and if the local constabulary are still planning to turn up on his doorstep, he might as well add _drunk_ to the charge of _disorderly._

Killian scowls at the bottles of wine that David has neatly laid down in the wine rack. He could have _sworn_ that there was a quarter-bottle of fifteen year-old rum in this bloody apartment, a parting gift from a retiring partner of his firm. In fact, he distinctly remembers seeing it on the kitchen counter only a few months earlier, when Mary Margaret was creating some kind of fruitcake concoction–

His scowl deepens. _Bingo._

Dropping onto the couch, he glares at the bright yellow bag sitting on the coffee table before grabbing his phone and sending a quick text message to his culinary enthusiast of a housemate.

_Why is the rum gone?_

The reply from Mary Margaret comes swiftly and is accompanied by a morose-looking cartoon kitten’s face.

**_Ooops. Sorry! Will buy you a new bottle when we get home, I promise._ **

The joys of share-house living, he thinks. It’s a lovely gesture on her part, but it hardly helps him dull his smarting conscience _now,_ does it?

Guilt flickers through him at this uncharitable thought. Mary Margaret is one of the most generous souls he’s ever have the good fortune to encounter, and while it _is_ technically her fault he can’t drown his sorrows with his poison of choice, he’s not going to begrudge her using his rum.

As he recalls, the resulting fruit cake _had_ been quite good.

_No rush. I’ll just raid Dave’s wine cellar instead. Safe travels home._

Resisting the urge to kick Walsh’s parting gift to the floor as he passes the coffee table, he procures a glass of red wine and wanders into his bedroom to find the most complicated novel he owns in a vain attempt to make him forget the events of the morning.

It doesn’t work.

The wine merely makes him melancholy, and it would take something akin to Atlas Shrugged (an unpleasant tale he’s never relished) to keep him from thinking about the disappointment in Emma’s eyes as she’d turned away from him. He has no doubt he’s disappointed her in the past, but it’s never made him feel sick to his stomach with self-loathing.

He looks around his bedroom. The last time he’d slept in here, Emma had been curled up beside him. If he were to put his wine aside and stretch out on his bed, he knows his bed linen and pillows would smell like her.

Perhaps his bedroom isn’t the best place to try to take his mind off that last terrible conversation.

Picking up his laptop from his desk, he returns to the living room, setting up a one-man sulking station on the couch with the internet and the bottle of merlot, turning on the television as an afterthought. He might as well attempt total sensory overload while he’s at it, he decides.

He settles on a 1970’s blockbuster (he might have problems, but at least he’s not trapped in an upside down cruise ship) then promptly tunes it out as he fires up his laptop and finishes his first glass of wine in record time. Perhaps he can embroil himself in a fierce debate regarding the latest dreadful performance of his mother country’s cricket team.

**Why aren’t you answering my emails, you lazy git?**

Then again, perhaps he can rely on a waiting message from his brother to provide a distraction.

_Because I’ve had better things to do. Thanksgiving and all that. Enjoying your Sunday?_

**We are going out to dinner tonight sans child. Very exciting prospect indeed.**

_Child Welfare frowns on parents chaining their offspring to the sofa, you know._

**I know you are far removed from the world of childrearing, but there exists this wonderful, mythical creature known as a babysitter. Charges desperate parents outrageous fees, but it’s worth it to eat a meal without having to cut up someone else’s dinner into bite-sized pieces beforehand.**

Killian smiles for the first time in what feels like hours. His brother is naturally verbose (it seems to run in the family, he’ll admit that), but it seems the prospect of a night out with his lovely wife has made him abnormally chatty.

_Going somewhere posh?_

**Alas, just the Indian at the end of the road. Nervous parents of toddlers don’t like straying too far, babysitter or not.**

Killian’s smile grows. That particular restaurant is a longtime favourite of Liam and his wife, and he remembers it well from his last visit home. In fact, he recalls thinking that Emma would definitely give the food a thumbs-up, then telling himself that he was an idiot for thinking that she’d _ever_ be there with him.

_I remember the one. We’ll have to go back there on my next visit._

**And when might that be? What are you doing for Christmas?**

Killian’s fingers hover over the keyboard. If Liam had asked him this question yesterday morning, he would have been tempted to brag about spending the upcoming festive season in Emma’s delightful company. After this morning, though, he’s hesitant to even mention her name, lest he jump the gun.

No pun intended, he thinks unhappily, remembering the dressing-down he’d received this morning about getting in the way of policemen and their pistols.

_I’ll have to get back to you on that one. Not sure I can take the time off work._

When his brother replies, Killian can almost feel the eye-rolling occurring on the other side of the world.

**That’s a piss poor excuse and you know it.**

_You should go get ready for your big night out. Find those stretchy pants Annie doesn’t usually let you wear outside the house._

**I’m not the one who put away almost an entire Tandoori chicken the last time he was in the country.**

_Not my fault I’m blessed with a fast metabolism._

**Call me when you work out what you’re doing for Christmas, will you? For some reason, my wife and son think it would be a treat if you came to visit us for a while.**

_Your wife is a woman of good taste, despite her choice in husband, and your son is clearly a child genius. Making no promises, but I’ll see what I can do.   Enjoy your curry, you podgy bastard._

Liam sends back one last missive, calling into doubt his own brother’s parentage, then tells him he loves him and to please try to take some time off work next month.

After his brother signs off, Killian feels a pang of something he knows full well is homesickness, something he hasn’t felt for a long time. He closes his eyes, imagining taking Emma home with him at Christmas, introducing her to Annie, listening her to her conspire with Liam as to his younger brother’s most annoying traits, watching her play with young James and the ridiculously adorable puppy whose name he’s forgotten.

_Bloody hell._

His breath seems to snag in his chest. The longing for his imaginations to become reality is almost a physical ache, hollowing out his insides. God, please don’t let him have fucked everything up before they’ve even had a chance to properly get started. He would never, ever forgive himself.

Opening his eyes, he reaches for the bottle of Merlot. He has no idea when Emma will be home, and given the fact he knows her better than he knows himself, there’s every chance he might be waiting for hours. The wine might not help with the sodding heartache, but it seems to be dulling the ache in his right hand, and he’s not about to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

He shifts the bright yellow bag off the coffee table, dropping it onto the rug where it lands with a very satisfactory _clunk._ He might have confined himself to house arrest, but he’ll be buggered if he’s going to stare at Walsh’s parting gift all afternoon.

As he’s about to pour a second glass of wine, he hesitates, then shakes his head. As long he’s not pissed out of his head when she arrives home, he reassures himself, he’ll be fine.

 

~*~

 

“Swan!”   The sound of Killian’s shout echoes down the hallway as soon as she opens the front door just after three o’clock. “How delightful of you to _finally_ grace me with your presence. I feel so _honoured._ ”

 _O-kay._ Emma frowns as she shuts the door behind her, flipping the lock out of habit. It’s not exactly the greeting she’d been expecting, and she makes her way cautiously down the hallway and into the living room before stopping in her tracks.

Killian is stretched out on the couch ( _their_ couch), his sock-clad feet crossed at the ankles. There is an empty bottle of wine and an empty miniature bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, an empty packet of his favorite (and expensive) chocolate cookies making it a trilogy of overindulgences.

Maybe she should have come home a little sooner.

She puts her purse down on the other couch, then puts her hands on her hips. She’d planned any number of opening salvos, but none of those seem right now. “How’s your hand?”

He doesn’t get up to greet her. Instead, he just waves his right hand in her direction, his mouth curved in a tight smile. “Blessedly numb. You wouldn’t even know I’d risked my life by punching a complete prick the morning.”

She narrows his eyes at him. Apparently, he’s decided to deal with the aftermath of their argument by getting drunk. He could at least have had the decency to wait until she got home before opening up one of David’s best bottles of red. “I’m starting to think I should have let you spend the night behind bars.”

“Charming.” He puts his hands behind his head, his gaze pinned on the ceiling. “Nothing like a brush with death to find out how a woman really feels about you.”

The words might be teasing, but his tone is anything but cheerful. Taking a deep breath, she moves closer to the couch. “Have you been drinking since you got home?”

“I most certainly have, my darling.” He shrugs, a careless lifting of his shoulders. “I promise you that it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

She says nothing, staring at him until he turns to look at her. When his gaze finally meets hers, she takes another step closer. “How about now? Still seem like a good idea?”

He stares at her with too-bright eyes, his tongue making an appearance at the corner of his mouth. “Not as much as it did earlier, I must confess.”

He’s speaking with the precise diction that he always uses when he’s trying to appear as though he’s not three sheets to the wind. Usually, it makes her smile.

Not today, though.

She inhales a sharp breath through her nose, suddenly at a loss. She’d had a speech all prepared – that she was still angry, she still loved him, and that she needed him to understand both of those things – but now she has the unsettling sense of having had the wind taken out of her sails. “Well, have fun with that.”

He’s on his feet remarkably quickly for someone who’s drunk a whole bottle of wine. “That’s it?”

She runs an agitated hand through her hair. “What do you want me to say, Killian?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He moves towards her, not the slightest sway in his gait, his eyes never leaving hers. “I thought perhaps you’d like to yell at me some more.”

She suddenly feels inexplicably close to tears. “I don’t want to yell at you.”

“Are you sure about that?” The challenge in his voice matches the glint in his eyes, his body easing towards her in a swagger. (There’s no other word for it, really.). “Because it seemed to me like you weren’t nearly done yelling at me when you sped off in your car and left me outside that ridiculous restaurant.”

He’s close enough now for her to reach out and touch him. She can smell the wine he’s been drinking, but also his aftershave, the familiar scent of his skin and his hair. She knows that if she went to him now, he would wrap his arms around her and even though he’s part of the reason why she’s all turned around, being held by him would instantly make her feel better. But there are too many things left unspoken between then.

(Just like there always is, it seems.)

“I don’t want to yell.” She licks her lips, wishing they didn’t feel so dry. “I just want-” She breaks off, because what the fuck _does_ she want?

She wants him to have stayed home this morning.

She wants not to have wasted so much time pretending she wasn’t in love with him.

She wants never to have met Walsh.

He puts his own hands on his hips, mirroring her stance, one dark eyebrow raised. “You were saying?”

Anger rises up in her at his gently mocking tone, quick and burning, and she closes the gap between them with one quick step. Putting her hands on his chest, she shoves at him. “Why the _hell_ didn’t you listen to me this morning?”

He barely budges, his feet seemingly planted to the floor. Instead, he looks at her with wounded eyes, bright blue against the dark hair that’s fallen across his brow. “I just wanted to help.”

The guilt in his voice only makes her angrier. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

The tiny muscle in his jaw flickers. “Obviously not.”

“I didn’t want you anywhere near him. I wanted to put him behind me, forget the last eighteen months ever happened.”   _Fuck,_ her voice is cracking, and she knows if she doesn’t get all this out of her system, she’ll be in danger of dissolving into tears. “I didn’t want you to be a part of something I planned to leave behind.”

He blinks a few times, and she literally sees her words sinking in. Finally, he gives a tiny shake of his head and glares at her. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me all that last night?”

Frustration grips her, and she finds herself throwing her hands in the hair. “Because I was stupid enough to think that you would trust my judgment when it came to my _job_.”

His eyes flash with blue fire. “I’m in _love_ with you.” He bites the words out, and she feels the impact of every one of them like a skewer through her heart. “Job or not, did you _really_ think I’d sit meekly at home while you were confronting that psychotic oxygen thief of an ex-boyfriend?”

Her eyes blur hotly. “I had everything under the control.”

His gaze narrows. “Until I ruined it, you mean.”

God, he’s _the_ most infuriating person she’s ever met. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant though, isn’t it?”

She takes a deep breath, then another, because she is real danger of spluttering gibberish here. “Wait, why are _you_ angry about this?”

“Because for all your talk of trust, it’s clear that you don’t trust _me_.”

Stung, she shoots back a reply that sounds defensive, even to her own ears. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He sways closer to her, his gaze locked with hers. “Emma, you took my car keys.”

She feels her mouth set in a stubborn line. Maybe she’d been wrong to take his keys, but the fact that he’d turned up at Galinda’s anyway kind of proves her point, doesn’t it? “I wanted to keep you safe.”

Killian’s mouth twitches in a small, sad smile that makes her heart clench. “Am I not allowed to want to do the same thing for you?”

Emma stares at him, the fire inside her dying away as the truth of his words sink in, and he lifts his hand to touch her face. She doesn’t move away (she can’t, it seems like an eternity since he’s touched her) and the feel of his palm, warm and sure, against her cheek has her closing her eyes. “I’m sorry I let that bastard goad me into lashing out, but I’m not sorry I was there.”

He pauses, and she opens her eyes to see him swallow hard. “Having to wait outside that restaurant, not knowing if you were okay or if he’d managed to mess with your head.” He shakes his head, as if not wanting to relive the memory. “Then you strode out into the sunlight and you were fine, you were more than fine, you were gloriously triumphant, like a bloody Valkyrie and you were so angry with me, but I didn’t care, because you were _safe_.”

She leans into his touch, unable to stop herself. “Killian-”

“I will never stop trying to protect you _and_ your heart, love.” He huffs out a soft, nervous chuckle, his eyes searching hers. “If that’s going to be a problem, you’d better tell me now.”

 _Fuck_ , she’s about to cry and it’s all his fault. She’s spent so long telling herself that she didn’t need anyone to look out for her, that she did better alone, that she didn’t need protecting. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel cherished, and it’s almost overwhelming. “Would you have really gone to jail for me?”

He smiles, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Does that surprise you?”

Her voice snags in her throat, caught by a swell of tender longing that should scare the crap out of her. But it doesn’t, not anymore. She curls her fingers around his hand, pulling it gently away from her face, and he lets out a smothered sound of discomfort. She smiles, then kisses the swell beneath his thumb, tasting the salt of his skin. “Booze wearing off?”

“Just a tad,” he admits, but he’s smiling into her eyes like she’s the sun and stars and freaking moon wrapped up in a bottle of the best whiskey in the world, and she knows she’s going to kiss him.

His mouth is warm and tastes of wine and chocolate, and the sound he makes as she slides her tongue between his lips is the best thing she’s heard in a long time. His right hand might be sore, but that doesn’t stop him from running both of them down her back to grip her ass, pulling her firmly against him as he kisses her hungrily. His hips press into hers, the thick ridge of his erection against her belly, and he groans into her mouth, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. She pushes back, her skin practically itching with _want,_ her hands busy pulling his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. “Let’s go to bed.”

He lifts his head, his breath coming as short and fast as hers. “I take it you’re finished yelling at me?”

She slides her hands over his chest, her fingers delving into the gaps between the buttons of his shirt. His skin is warm and firm, and her belly clenches at the memory of how it feels against her own. “You sound disappointed.”

He smirks, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Actually, I quite fancy you when you’re yelling at me.”

She pinches him through his shirt, childish but effective. “God, you are such a-”

He kisses her, his mouth cutting off her planned insult. She doesn’t care. She winds her arms around his neck, letting him pull her backwards towards the couch, breathing him in, the familiar buzz of arousal simmering through her blood. Then they’re falling, stumbling together, and he tears his mouth away from hers to swear loudly.

“Bloody hell!” He regains his footing and grabs her by the elbows, keeping her upright, then shoots an accusing glare at the floor. “Oh, I should have known.”  

She follows the line of his gaze, her eyes widening when she sees what he’s nudging with his sock-clad toes. It’s the vintage yellow bag Walsh had given her this morning, the one holding all the stuff she’d left at his apartment. The one, she realises now, she’s accidentally left under the table at Galinda’s. “How did that get here?”

Killian rubs the back of his neck. “I brought it home for you.”

Confused, Emma looks from him to the bag, then back again. “But how did _you_ get it?”

He suddenly looks faintly defensive. “One of the waitresses came rushing out with it after you’d gone.”

“And she just let you take it?”

“She’d seen us talking.”   He bends down to pick up the bag, dropping it onto the coffee table, right on top of the empty packet of chocolate cookies. “She must be a bit short-sighted, that one. I know _I_ wouldn’t have assumed we were on cordial terms if I’d witnessed that particular conversation.”

Emma sighs. If she’s going to have to put with him making snide jokes about this morning until the end of time, they’re going to have a problem. “Seriously?”

He clears his throat before putting on his Pompous Lawyer voice, obviously for her amusement. “I managed to convince her that we lived under the same roof, and she was happy for me to take it off her hands.” He gives her a bright wink. “I can be quite charming when I want to be, Swan.”

Torn between pinching him and kissing him, she goes with a smile of gratitude. She’s happy to have her belongings back, despite the circumstances. “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to miss out on one last token from Monkey Boy.”   He tilts his head as he studies it. “Dear me, it’s even banana-coloured.” He pulls a face, then shakes his head. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Doesn’t matter either way.” There’s no way she’s keeping anything from Walsh, no matter how much she suspects it costs. “It’s going in the dumpster as soon as I’ve emptied it.” She perches on the edge of the couch, while Killian stays on his feet, watching with interest. “All I want was my stuff back.” She unzips the bag with a jerk of her hand and turns it upside down, shaking out the contents onto the couch beside her.

Amidst the tumble of perfume bottles, earrings, tubes of hand cream and CDs (and her Red Sox jersey, thank God), there is a small, black circle, just a little bigger than a half dollar. It rolls across the couch cushions, then drops onto the rug below. “What the hell was that?”

Killian peers at it. “I have no idea.”

Emma stares at the small, flat disc, trying to wrap her head around what she’s seeing. She blinks, as if that might change the reality, but nothing changes. There is a freaking _bug_ lying on the floor of her apartment and there is only one person who would have put a listening device in that yellow bag.

_Holy fuck._

Quickly getting to her feet, Emma puts her fingers to Killian’s lips, but he ducks his head away, swaying slightly as he goes to pick up the small black circle. “If he’s put a bloody break-up mixed tape on a USB for you, I’m going down to the police station and bruising my other hand-”

She grabs his arm, hauling him backwards. When he looks at her, startled, she mouths two very distinct words at him.

_Be. Quiet._

Emma knows now how Zelena Mills had managed to slip through the fingers of the authorities. How she knew Walsh’s cover as a mild-mannered store owner had been blown and it was time for her to disappear without him having to lift a finger to alert her.

“It’s just a pot of lip gloss,” she says in a deliberately clear voice. “I was wondering where I’d left that one.”

Leaving the bug on the floor, she then grabs her phone and pulls Killian out of the living and down the hallway into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. As she starts dialing Kathryn’s number, he stands in the middle of her bedroom, his hands raised in confusion. “What the devil was that thing, Swan?” He looks more than a little alarmed. “Do we need to evacuate?”

“Nope.” She puts her phone to her ear, waiting for Kathryn to pick up. “It’s a bug.”

He frowns. “A bug?”

“A surveillance device,” she informs him flatly, and has time to watch his expression change from befuddled to furious before Kathryn picks up.

“Emma?”

She feels a grim smile tug at her mouth at the professional anticipation in her boss’ voice. “I figured how Zelena managed to skip town.”

“How?”

“Walsh gave me a bag filled with everything I’d left at his place at brunch this morning, and he added a little something of his own.” Emma glances at Killian, who looks as though he’s considering making good on his threat to track Walsh down. “A pretty little surveillance bug to go with the earrings I left on his nightstand.”

“And I assume the bag was at your table the whole time?”

“Yep.”

“You’ve got to hand it to him,” Kathryn says in a dry voice, “he certainly thought of everything.”

“And yet he’s still sitting on his ass in a cell tonight,” Emma shoots back cheerfully, motioning for Killian to sit on the bed beside her as she puts the phone on speaker. “I’m tempted to smash this thing with a hammer, but I’m guessing the cops will find it very interesting.”

“They certainly will. Hold on for a moment, would you?” There’s a muffled sound as Kathryn turns away from the phone, then Emma hears her speak in a much softer tone. “Mommy will be there in a minute, just keep it on pause and we’ll watch it together, okay?”  

Killian slips his arm around her, anchoring her to him, and Emma smiles as she rests her head on his shoulder. “Movie night with the family?”

Kathryn sighs into the phone. “That Frozen thing again. Honestly, I’ve lost count of the times I’ve sat through it, but they love it.”

“What about Freddy?”

“He sings along the loudest of all, can you believe it? The big sap,” she adds fondly, then switches to a much more brisk tone. “I’ll call your discovery in. I’m quite sure the case detectives will want to pick it up as soon as possible. Will you be home for the rest of the day?”

“I’ve no plans to go anywhere, trust me.” She threads her fingers through Killian’s (gently, she can see the faint bruising on his knuckles), and squeezes his hand lightly. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“I understand.” Kathryn pauses, then goes on. “If I may just say one more thing?”

Emma tries very hard to ignore the fact that Killian’s hand has slipped beneath the hem of her skirt, the light skim of his fingertips seeming to warm her skin through her black tights. “Sure.”     

“I’ve been told charges won’t be forthcoming, but your punch-happy housemate might want to make himself scarce when the detectives arrive to collect your ex’s parting gift.” Kathryn sounds as though she’s trying not to laugh. “Just in case.”

Killian’s indignant snort flutters against her temple, followed by the brush of his lips. Emma grins at the phone. “Good idea.”

The now silent phone on her bed table, Emma turns to the man sitting beside her. “Well, that’s _that_ , I guess.”

His hand ventures a little higher up her thigh, his fingertips tracing the seam of her tights, making her inhale sharply. “How much of our conversation would that thing have picked up?”

She sees the concern in his eyes, but she’s not going to lie to him. “Well, it looked way more expensive than anything I’ve ever used, so maybe all of it?”

He scowls. “I have to say, I’m not enamored of that particular notion.”

Emma’s pretty sure her scowl is a match for his. “Yeah, I can’t say _I’m_ thrilled at the idea of Zelena listening to us argue.”

He quirks one dark eyebrow at her, his fingertips stroking the inside of her thigh. “She might have heard more than that, love.”

She feels her face grow hot as she thinks of everything else Zelena could have heard. “Maybe the television drowned out anything interesting.”

“Too late to fret now, but I’m sure you’re right.” He dips his head, brushing his nose against the curve of her ear. “Tell me, how long do we have before the local law enforcement arrives?”

Desire unfurls low in her belly, the gentle touch of his fingertips sparking flames along her flesh, chasing away the lingering gloom left by the thought of their privacy being invaded. “No idea.”

With his free hand, he lifts her hair away from the back of her neck, leaving it bare to his kiss, hunger shimmering in his eyes. “Whatever shall we do until they knock on the door?”

His mouth is suddenly hot on the nape of her neck, and the scrape of his beard has her nipples draw up tight, pressing against the lace of her bra. _Fuck._ She shifts restlessly on the bed, crossing her legs to neatly trap his exploring hand between her thighs. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Emma feels his mouth curve into a smile, then the press of his teeth as he gently bites the back of her neck. “I have a few ideas.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” She leans back against him, relishing the solid warmth of his chest against her back, then reluctantly pulls away. “But first, let me go put that bug in an air-tight jar and pile a few cushions on top of it.”

His eyes sparkle with obvious admiration at her forward thinking. “Taking no chances, I see.”

Feeling ridiculously flattered, she climbs off the bed and bends to kiss the top of his head. “Well, I know how _loud_ you can get.”

Closing the bedroom door on his muttered protest ( _I hate to break it to you, love, but it’s you who’s the screamer)_ she grins all the way to the living room via the kitchen, and not even having to deal with a fucking listening device planted by her underhanded ex-boyfriend can wipe the smile off her face.

 

~*~

 

A few hours ago, he had begun to despair that he’d ruined everything, that Emma would decide a relationship with him was more trouble than it was worth. Now, she’s standing before him as he sits on her bed, letting him peel her black tights down her thighs and kiss each newly revealed inch of creamy skin as he goes.

It’s quite the swift change in mood, but luckily, he’s good at thinking on his feet. Or _off_ them, he thinks with a salacious grin as he grips two handfuls of silken-clad arse, pulling her closer. “God, you’re a glorious creature.”

Her hand tightens on his shoulders as she shifts from foot to foot, reaching down to tug the tights off and toss them carelessly aside. “Even when I’m not yelling at you?”

With her tights gone, he takes the opportunity to explore the soft skin at the backs of her knees, earning himself a sharp intake of breath. “The circumstances in which I’d consider you anything less than glorious have yet to be invented, love.”

She pushes his shirt off his shoulders in a less than subtle hint for him to take it off. “What about when I threw up last St Patrick’s Day?”

He thinks of how she’d let him half-carry her from the taxi up to their apartment after their night out, her arms wound tight around his neck, her nose buried against his collarbone. “Even then.”

Reaching behind her to unzip her dress, she fixes him with a gimlet eye. “Even when I reversed over your foot on that borrowed scooter in the final year of college?”

He feels a dull heat stain the back of his neck as he sheds his shirt. It seems today is the day to pay the piper in more ways than one. “Especially then, what will all the concerned hugging and offering to drive me to the hospital afterwards.” He strokes the backs of her thighs as her dress slips from her shoulders. “Although I suppose now would be a good time to confess that I’d borrowed a pair of David’s sneakers that day and you’d merely crushed the empty toe. He takes a size bigger, you see.”

Her eyes widen in outrage. “Are you serious right now? I thought I’d broken your damned foot!” She drops her dress to the floor and pushes him back onto her bed with a hard shove. “Fuck _you_ , Killian Jones.”

He grips her hips, pulling her onto the bed with him, the sound of her throaty laughter warming his blood. “That _is_ the idea, darling.”

“God, you were _such_ an asshole back then,” she announces succinctly, but the insult is tempered somewhat by the fact that she’s pressing a line of kisses across his chest, her hands nimbly unbuttoning his jeans.  

“There are some who might say I still am,” he mutters, his words stuttering on his tongue as she palms his growing erection through his jeans.

She catches his wrists in her hands, pinning them to the bed on either side of his head as she straddles him. Her gaze is very green and very clear as it searches his face, and he feels his pulse quicken anew. “Well, _I_ say you’re not, and my opinion is the only one that matters, right?”

“Truer words were never spoken, love.”

Her kiss is soft and tender, her hips pressing down into his with delightful accuracy. His jeans need to go, he decides, so he can feel the heat of her against him, but that would mean he’d have to stop kissing her. He curls his tongue around hers until he feels her breath coming faster, her hips stuttering against his, and his head fills with a dozen lurid possibilities.

Perhaps this time he’ll kiss the damp silk between her legs until her thigh muscles tighten with agonised anticipation, letting her writhe and twist until he finally pushes the silk aside and slides into her. Or perhaps he’ll roll her onto her stomach and kiss his way downward from the soft nape of her neck to the swell of her arse, hook one thigh over his shoulder and bury his face in her slick, hot flesh.

At first, he thinks the buzzing in his ears is merely his pounding pulse, then he realises it’s something far more technical. Sadly, Emma’s impatient sigh confirms that the buzzing is coming from the phone on her bedside table. As she reaches for it, Killian tells himself that now is not the time to catch her lovely lace-clad breasts with his mouth, despite them swaying temptingly in front of his face. Blowing a curtain of hair out of her eyes, Emma puts her phone on speaker. “Hello?”

“One of Boston’s finest is on their way,” Kathryn announces in the efficient tone he’s come to expect from her. “You can expect them within the next ten minutes.”

“Sure thing.” Emma’s eyes meet his, her mouth curving in a smile of resignation. “I’ll be ready and waiting.”

With one hand occupied with her phone, she’s in no position to discourage him from reaching behind her back and unhooking her bra. He gently slips it off, watching avidly as the black lace catches on her nipples, beaded tight and stiff, and lust burns through him like a firestorm.

God, how he wants her, and he has no idea how he’s going to wait another ten seconds to have her, let alone ten minutes. He lifts his hips in a subtle rocking motion, and her thighs tighten around him as she presses herself down harder against his aching cock.

“I forgot to say earlier,” Kathryn goes on, blissfully unaware of her employee’s current state of dishabille. “Feel free to come in late tomorrow.”

He clasps Emma’s hips, rocking her against him, grinning as she bites her bottom lip, her teeth white against the blush pink of her mouth as she chokes out a question for her boss. “How late?”

“Tuesday morning suit you?”

“Sounds great.” Emma glares down at him, even as she twitches her hips against his in a delicious challenge. “Thanks.”

“Call me if you find any other surprises in your luggage.”

“Yep.” With one last strangled word, Emma ends the call and tosses her phone to the bed beside him. “I was wrong,” she tells him fiercely as she grabs two handfuls of his hair, hard enough to make his scalp tingle. “You’re still an _asshole_.” She breathes the words against his mouth, then she kisses him, hard and deep, kisses him until he’s almost senseless with the need to be inside her. When he cups her bare breasts in his hands, teasing the pebbled nipples with his thumbs, she mutters an obscenity into his mouth that has him growing harder still.

Alas, duty calls, in the form of the impending visit from the police, and after a few blissful moments of torturing each other, Emma gives him one last lingering kiss before climbing off the bed and retrieving her bra and dress.

Rolling onto his side, he props his head on one hand and watches this intriguing reverse striptease with a smile. “What marvelous timing we have today.”

She tosses him a saucy glance over her bare shoulder as she shimmies into her frock. “I know, right?”

He waited almost a decade for this woman, he tells himself sternly. He can wait another half hour. Rolling onto his back, he gingerly buttons the fly of his jeans, then swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Well, I’d better make myself respectable, too.”

Halfway through zipping up her dress, Emma holds up her hand. “Uh, you’re staying out of the way, remember?”

“This is not some French farce, darling.” He bends down to grope for his shirt on the floor. “And I am not going to cower under the duvet in your bedroom like an illicit lover.”

“You are _not_ showing your face while the cops are here.” Fully dressed but barefoot, she goes to her cupboard to fish out a pair of flats, then flashes him another look over her shoulder, her manner more stern than saucy this time, sadly. “I’m not taking any chances that Walsh has somehow managed to weasel his way into pressing assault charges.”

He buttons his shirt, not missing the way her eyes watch the movements of his fingers. “But I thought your boss said-”

“I know what she said, but I now also know what Walsh is really like.”   She comes back to stand beside the bed, running her hands through her disheveled hair. “If he can make things unpleasant for me, he will.”

The unwanted spectre of her former boyfriend suddenly looms large once more, and he bites back a few creatively disparaging words. It was bad enough that Walsh had used Emma so cruelly, but to reach out from the relationship grave in order to bug their brunch meeting, knowing she’d take the listening device into her home, is a new low.

“Given the circumstances, I suppose it’s wrong to hope I did some real damage to that wanker’s iron jaw,” he mutters, and Emma’s whole face softens. She combs her fingers through his hair, then pulls him close until his cheek is pressed against her stomach, the smooth fabric of her dress cool against his skin. Her nimble fingers seem to find every single pressure point on his scalp, and he feels he might be in danger of either purring or drooling or both, God help him.

“Thank you, officially, for defending my honour. As far as I’m concerned, he deserved much worse.” She kisses the top of his head, her mouth as soft as the hands now looped around his neck. “But do you think you could humor me and not be around when the cops turn up?”

He kisses the swell of her hip through her dress, the mingled scents of fabric softener and female flesh teasing his nose, then sighs as dramatically as he dares. “I suppose I could spend some quality time in my room while you deal with the thin blue line.”

Her brow furrows in confusion, and he grins. “I greatly look forward to expanding your vocabulary to include transcontinental idioms, Swan.”

Rolling her eyes, she tweaks his ear. “Maybe we could watch more UKTV.” Reaching down, she peels his hands from where they seem to have come to rest on her arse, her green eyes sparkling. “While we’re snogging on the sofa because I’m well fit and you’re bang up for it?”

He beams at her. It’s official. He’s created a monster, and he couldn’t be happier to be cast in the role of Frankenstein. “Now you’re talking.”

 

~*~

 

Emma closes and locks the door with relief, feeling as though a hard knot deep in her chest has suddenly been untangled. Leaning against the door, she waits until she hears the faint ding of the elevator arriving at the end of the hallway outside, then breathes out a sigh.

Thank God that’s over.

Her interaction with the cop who’d come to collect the bug hadn’t been exactly tense, but she’s definitely had more relaxed conversations. At least it was one of the two detectives who’d picked up Walsh, and she didn’t have to worry that one of Zelena’s underlings might be adding _impersonating an officer_ to their repertoire.

Then again, it _had_ been the detective who’d been all too eager to go for his gun when Killian popped Walsh in the jaw, and Emma had seen the way his gaze had scanned the apartment. She knows Kathryn would have pulled out all the stops in order to vouch for Killian, but Emma knows Walsh would very much enjoy trying to discredit her discretely hidden housemate’s professional reputation.

_The cop raises his eyebrows at her containment system (she made no apologies, the empty salsa jar had been the perfect size to put the damned thing in) before placing it into a small, lined case. He proceeds to ask her several routine but oddly pointed questions, and Emma can only pray that Killian doesn’t decide he’s tired of being cooped up in his room and wants to join in the excitement._

_“Did you discuss the target’s alleged operation with a third party in the vicinity of the listening device?”_

_Emma met the cop’s eyes steadily. “No.”_

_“Did you discuss your role in the arrest of the target with a third party in the vicinity of the listening device?”_

_Technically, she did, but not in the way he means. “Not exactly.”_

_He pauses long enough to fix her with a sharp stare, then continues. “Did you discuss the possible whereabouts of the suspect Zelena Mills with a third party-”_

_She knows she should just sit out the tedious line of questioning, but seriously, come on. “Definitely not.” She gestures towards the case at his feet. “Look, the only thing that bug might have picked up is me bitching about my ex-boyfriend turning out to be a lying douchebag.” Her heart is pounding, but she manages to keep her expression calm, almost bored. “Seeing as I was off the clock at the time and he_ is _a lying douchebag, I think I could be forgiven for speaking my mind in the privacy of my own home.”_

_The cop nods, jotting down God knows what in his notepad, then he actually smiles. “Was the bag underneath the table at the restaurant while you were talking to the target?”_

_Emma grins, because she’s just realised why he’s asking. Walsh might have been trying to provide a failsafe for Zelena, but it seems he might have just handed the cops a very handy recording of their entire brunch conversation. “It sure was.”_

_“Excellent.” He picks up the case, looking vaguely pleased. “We’ll contact Midas Bonds in due course. For now, you can consider the matter over as far as you’re concerned.”_

_She hesitated, then gestures at the case once more. “I wouldn’t have found that thing if Killian hadn’t thought to retrieve the bag for me. Zelena would have probably sent someone to grab it from the restaurant and we would have been none the wiser.”_

_The cop pauses, again pinning her with a steady stare, then he nods. “Duly noted.”_

_He takes the yellow bag with him as well, but not before telling her that he suspects the bug had been affixed to the inner lining (which was black) and had obviously been knocked loose. Emma smiles, not bothering to tell him she suspects Killian had kicked the damn thing all the way home._

When he’s gone, Emma presses her forehead against the cool wood of the front door. Her palms are damp, she realises with a start, and she wipes them on the skirt of her dress. She is never going to mix business with pleasure (for want of a better word) again. Another morning like that, and she’s going to have to get her blood pressure checked.

She makes her way to Killian’s bedroom door, rapping her knuckles in a cursory knock before pushing it open. “The coast is clear, _mate_ -”

He’s asleep.

Stretched out on top of his bed, still dressed, he’s dead to the world, hugging one of his pillows to his chest. The heavy curtains are drawn, no lamp turned on. Obviously the wine and the emotion of the day have finally taken its tool.

A swell of longing rises up inside her, and she suddenly feels close to tears. He might be a pompous, impulsive idiot sometimes, and she almost can’t bear to think of all the time she’d wasted pretending she wasn’t in love with him.

Kicking off her flats, she climbs onto the bed beside him, gently tugging the pillow out of his grip. Pulling his right arm over her hip, she fits herself into the curve of his body, her back against his chest, her legs tangling with his. Closing her eyes, she thinks she can almost feel his heartbeat.

It’s a perfect match for hers.

She’s almost dozed off when he speaks, making her start. “You convinced the boys in blue not to arrest me, then?”

She shifts closer, tucking her bare feet under his sock-clad ones. “I told them you were under house arrest for the rest of the year and they bought it.”

His chuckle is a puff of warm breath against the back of her neck. “That’s going to make going to work difficult, but I’m sure the partners will understand.”

She reaches for the hand splayed on her hip, gently touching his knuckles. “Hand still sore?”

“Why?” His voice is rough with sleep and makes her stomach curl up at the edges, sending the butterflies scurrying. “Are you going to kiss it better?”

“Maybe.” Smiling, she lifts his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to each knuckle, then one to his palm for good measure. “You doing okay back there?”

He tucks his nose into the crook of her neck and sighs heavily. “I’ve decided that the wine was officially a bad idea.”

She jabs a gentle elbow backwards, poking him in the stomach. “Now who’s the lightweight?”

He snorts softly at that. “Still you, I’m afraid, Swan.” Somehow, the hand she’s holding manages to find its way to the neckline of her dress, skimming the curve of her breast. “At least _I’ll_ remember everything when I wake up tomorrow morning.”

Now she wishes she’d jabbed her elbow a little harder. “You’re never going to let me forget that, aren’t you?”

“Definitely not.”

Maybe she should be annoyed at the smug tone of his voice, but she’s too warm and content to care. She thinks of that first night, the night of missing memories, and realises there’s something she’s never asked him. “You put me to bed that night, didn’t you?” She’d had all her clothes on, of course, but her shoes had been taken off, and there had been something else, some little thing that she thought she must have done. She smiles, remembering. “There was a glass of water on my nightstand when I woke up.”

“Aye, that was me,” he sounds almost embarrassed, and she twists in his arms, trying to see his face.

“That was very sweet of you.”

He gives her a small, sleepy smile. “It seemed the least I could do for the woman I loved.”

Even though, after almost four days of confessing their secrets, the words still make her heart clench. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

“We got there in the end.” The dimple in his cheek flirts with the corner of his smiling mouth. “I must say, it’s been quite the Thanksgiving.”

She laughs, turning onto her side once more and burrowing back against him. “Definitely one for the record books.”

He smooths his palm over the curve of her hip in long, soothing strokes, never once trying to slip his hand beneath the hem of her dress. “The question now, of course, is what should we do _next_ weekend?”

The future suddenly stretches out before her, vast and faintly daunting, but the idea of running in the other direction has never been farther from her mind. “I think we should get in your car and just drive.” She feels the sudden tension in his body, pressed so close against hers, and knows he recognises their conversation from weeks earlier. It had been a wistful dream of his, to drive away from the city lights in his ridiculous beast of a car, find the water and watch the stars. “Just drive until we reach the ocean, build a bonfire on the beach and look at the stars.”

He doesn’t speak of a long moment, and when he does, his voice is suspiciously thick. “That might just be the best idea you’ve ever had, Swan.”

He leans over her, taking her mouth in a languid, almost dreamy kiss, his fingers splayed across her jaw, his thumb flirting with her chin. He tastes of wine and a dark, spicy warmth, and her pulse quickens as she shifts restlessly on the bed. He lifts his head, and his ragged breath washes over her heated cheek like a benediction. “Right now, however, I would like to do several unspeakably filthy things to you, if you don’t mind.”

Emma grins, slipping her hand beneath his untucked shirt, the hair on his belly crisp against her palm. She slips her hand into the waistband of his jeans, finding him hard and full, eager for her touch. “I have _no_ problem with that.”

 

~*~ 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have been waiting for Mary Margaret and David to find out what they missed over Thanksgiving, this chapter is for you. For everyone else, there are more sexy times.

 

~*~

 

_He’s running through city streets, trying to reach Galinda’s before the worst can happen. Parked cars and dawdling people constantly block his way, as if purposely trying to slow him down, and he stumbles over his own feet again and again.  In the end, he reaches Galinda’s just in time to see Emma desperately ducking out of range of Walsh’s swinging arm.  He opens his mouth to shout a warning, but nothing comes out.  Walsh’s head snaps up, his dark gaze locking with Killian’s, an odd red light burning in his eyes as he grins, showing too many teeth._

Killian opens his eyes.

He’s in his bedroom, and the soft warmth pressed against his front from sternum to knee definitely hadn’t been there earlier when he’d decided to rest his eyes,  _just for a few minutes_.

Emma’s breathing is steady and soft, but given she’s still fidgeting as she makes herself comfortable, he’s fairly certain she’s not asleep. “You convinced the boys in blue not to arrest me, then?”

She immediately wriggles backwards on the bed, tucking her feet under his as she settles her bottom into the curve of his thighs. They’ve only been sharing a bed for four days, but the gesture is already pleasantly familiar. “I told them you were under house arrest for the rest of the year and they bought it.”

He laughs softly, his hand flexing on the swell of her hip. What he’d give for a proper excuse to be holed up in the apartment with her for the next month. “That’s going to make going to work difficult, but I’m sure the partners will understand.”

She gently touches his right hand where it lays on her hip, her fingertips tentative as she strokes his knuckles. “Hand still sore?”

“Why?”  He sounds like he’s just inhaled half a dozen cigars, and he hastily clears his throat before dangling a teasing invitation in front of her.  “Are you going to kiss it better?”

She doesn’t disappoint him. “Maybe.” She carefully takes his hand in hers, then he feels the warm brush of her lips on his skin. He holds his breath as she kisses each tender knuckle in turn, then his palm, the touch of her mouth seeming to send tiny arrows of anticipation through every nerve ending in his body.  “You doing okay back there?”

He considers his head, which seems to have acquired the same mild ache as his hand. Drinking during the day has always been a particular nemesis of his. “I’ve decided that the wine was officially a bad idea.”

Her response is an eloquent elbow in his belly.  “Now who’s the lightweight?”

He grins at the challenge in her voice. “Still you, I’m afraid, Swan.”  Her shoulders stiffen with indignation at his assertion, making his grin widen. Pulling her back against him, he lays his hand between her breasts, giving her a reassuring pat.  “At least _I’ll_ remember everything when I wake up tomorrow morning.”

The slender feet tangled with his give a little kick. “You’re never going to let me forget that, aren’t you?”

If his smile grows any wider, he thinks, it will reach his ears. He’s dreamed so long of having these kinds of intimate moments with her, he’s tempted to pinch himself. “Definitely not.”

She’s silent for half a moment, then she pats the arm that’s wrapped around her waist.  “You put me to bed that night, didn’t you? There was a glass of water on my nightstand when I woke up.”

He closes his eyes, feeling oddly as though he’s been caught out.  He’d almost forgotten he’d placed a glass of water beside her bed that night, although he’ll always remember his first sighting of those duckling sheets with great fondness. “Aye, that was me.”

She wriggles in his arms, turning her head to meet his eyes. “That was very sweet of you.”

He smiles, the relief of no longer having to pretend he was merely looking out for a friend washing over him. “It seemed the least I could do for the woman I love.”

(He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying those words.)

Her lips part on a shaky sigh, her eyes dark as she gazes at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

“We got there in the end.”  He can’t remember a more eventful November, to be honest. “I must say, it’s been quite the Thanksgiving.”

The sound of her quiet laughter seems to curl through the air around them like smoke as she makes herself comfortable, her back pressed against his chest once more. “Definitely one for the record books.”

He can’t stop touching her, another thing of which he’ll never tire.  He can feel the warmth of her skin through the cotton of her dress, not to mention the faint outline of her lacy knickers.  The thought that their four day weekend is over and tomorrow is Monday is a sobering one, but he’s determined to look for the silver lining. Not too hard, when Emma Swan is curled up beside him. “The question now, of course, is what should we do  _next_ weekend?”

She tilts back her head until it’s almost tucked under his chin. “I think we should get in your car and just drive.”  

He stills, feeling like she’s just reached into his chest and gently squeezed his heart.   _Oh, Emma._ Just when he thinks she can’t surprise him, she does.  Before he has the chance to speak, she goes on, her voice gently, almost dream-like.

“Just drive until we reach the ocean, build a bonfire on the beach and look at the stars.”

His throat feels tight, his chest heavy, and he can no more stop himself from leaning over to kiss her than he could keep from falling for her all those years ago. “That might just be the best idea you’ve ever had, Swan.”

Then her mouth is soft and warm beneath his, the smooth skin of her jaw like silk against his fingers.  She breathes a sigh of pleasure against his tongue, the taste of her heady and rich, and desire burns a path across his skin and through his blood. “Right now, however, I would like to do several unspeakably filthy things to you.”

Her answer is to slide her hand under his shirt to touch his stomach, then explore a teasing line from his navel downwards, her fingertips delving into the waistband of his jeans.  He clenches his jaw in anticipation, then she’s curling her hand around his cock, her touch both sure and gentle. “I have  _no_  problem with that.”

Threading his hand through her hair, he kisses her again and again, deep and slow, the pleasure building with every sweep of her tongue, every lazy stroke of her hand.  After a moment of this exquisite torture, he gently takes her wrist and pulls her hand away with a sheepish smile. He’d spent hours this afternoon thinking he might have lost her. He doesn’t want to rush this moment between them, and if she keeps touching him the way she is, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to last the distance.  “Sorry, love, but I have something else in mind.”

She smirks up at him, her hair a golden tangle around her head.  “Like I said, I have  _no_  problem with that.”

Bloody hell.

Their clothes are quickly shed in a laughing blur of zippers and buttons, and finally she’s bare to his gaze and his hands and his mouth. Her fingertips knead his scalp as he kisses his way down her throat, nipping at her collarbone, licking and biting at the tight, sweet tips of her breasts.  She breathes his name out on a sigh, her fingernails pressing tighter when he licks a slow line from her pubic bone to her belly button, deliberately scraping his whiskered chin over the tender flesh between her legs.

She arches beneath him then, the breathy sigh becoming something much sharper, more urgent. “ _Jesus._ ”

He settles himself between her thighs, one hand splayed flat on her stomach, then he bows his head to taste her.

He’d thought the sound she’d made a few seconds earlier had been quite the turn-on, but the noise that comes out of her mouth now has him so hard he marvels that there’s any blood left in his damned brain.  She’s just as delicious as he remembers, the salty sweet tang of her arousal on his tongue, the delicate shape of her flesh slick beneath his questing fingers.  Her heels press hard into his shoulder blades as she arches into his kiss, and he takes her to the brink not once but twice, waiting until he feels the trembling in her thighs a second time before he lifts his head, denying her the release she’s so eagerly chasing.

She glares at him through half-lidded eyes, her breasts rising and falling with her short, sharp breaths.  “Are you  _fucking_ kidding me?”

He licks his lips, tasting her, then grins as he reaches across to the top drawer of his nightstand to retrieve a condom, taking another few seconds to turn on his bedside lamp.  

He wants to see her.  

“All in good time.”  She has time to narrow her eyes before he slips his hands under her hips and rolls her onto her stomach.  “On your hands and knees, Swan, if you would be so kind.”

She’s still for a few seconds, and he wants to bite back the words, afraid he’s pushed their newly christened relationship too far, too soon.  Then, much to his eternal delight, she does as he’d asked, going so far as to flash him a come hither look over her shoulder that goes straight to his cock.

 _So much for being in charge of the proceedings_ , he muses feverishly.

He tears open the condom with unseemly haste, does what needs to be done, then kneels on the bed behind her. Nudging her legs wider as he settles himself, he rests his hands on her hips and prepares to shamelessly indulge himself with a trip down memory lane. “Three weeks after I moved into this apartment, you came home late one evening after catching a villain. You were wearing that ridiculously short red dress and those sky-high black heels.”

God, the vision she’d made.  Even now, he suspects that image is burned onto his retinas.

She bows her head, and he sees her hands shift restlessly on the duvet. “I remember.”

He starts to touch her, running his fingertips up the backs of her legs, over the swell of her glorious arse, teasing the soft cleft between her thighs. “You waltzed into the kitchen where I was minding my own business innocently making a cup of tea.”

His pulse is already pounding  _everywhere_ , but he does his best to keep his tone soft and even. “You proceeded to shamelessly flirt with me until all I wanted to do was to knock the tea to the floor and take you up against the kitchen counter and fuck you until those devilish shoes of yours were digging into my arse and you were begging me to finish you off.

She inhales sharply as she shifts backwards, the silky brush of her arse against his cock making him bite back a groan.  “You should have.”

Fucking hell.

He dips his hand between her legs, slipping one finger into the tight slickness there, closing his eyes at the shuddering sigh that goes through her.  “Killian,  _please_.”

“All in good time, remember?” Taking himself in hand, so to speak, he slowly teases her, rubbing the head of his cock where she’s wet and  _wanting_.  His jaw clenches at the feel of her, his ears ringing with the faintly obscene sound she makes as she pushes back against him in unmistakable invitation.  

“Killian, I swear to God-”

He pushes into her in a thick stretch of flesh and heat, and instantly realises that the only person he’s been torturing here is himself.  He feels drunk on her, more intoxicated than a bloody bottle of wine could ever achieve.

Emma rocks back against him, her thighs flush against his, taking him deeper until he’s buried to the hilt.  “God, I love you,” he tells her, the words tearing at his throat as he pulls his hips back, then finds her again, sheathing himself deep and hard.

He’s not sure who makes the loudest noise.

He suspects it’s him.

(He should have known she’d be more than up to whatever challenge he might throw down.)

She hooks her feet over his calves, rocking back against him in a demanding rhythm, tilting her hips to find exactly the right angle.  When she finds it, she chokes back a moan, her hands fisting in the bedclothes, and he starts to count to ten for the umpteenth time.

He maps the freckles and tiny moles on her back, first with his eyes, then his fingertip, tracing the delicate constellations on her skin, knowing he would happily follow her to the end of time, no matter how uncharted the waters.

His hands itch to touch her properly, to kiss her skin, and he sinks back onto his haunches, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her with him.  Without hesitation, she rises up like a flame in his arms, taking him deep inside her again and again, her head falling back onto his shoulder as he palms her breasts.  Feeling her start to tremble, he nips lightly at her throat, his breath hot in his lungs. “Tell me what you need, Emma.”

She’s making little sobbing sounds now, catching at her voice as she rocks into him, taking him deeper into the sleek clasp of her body. “Just you.”

He can’t last much longer, she’s burning him alive, and he wants to see her shatter before it’s too late. Catching her hand, he pulls it downwards, their entwined fingers finding the slippery point of their joining, rubbing and teasing until she starts to shake in his arms.  

She curses him when she comes.

She tells him that she loves him, too.

When the storm is over, he kisses her shoulder and slides his hands down to her hips.  In the blink of an eye, she pulls away from him, leaving him bereft, his whole body humming with tension.  “What the-”

In a move that could have come from a vintage Bond movie, she wraps her legs around his hips and rolls him over, pinning him to the mattress in the blink of an eye, one hand flat in the middle of his chest.  Holding his gaze with hers, she curls her hand around his cock, moving her slick fingers in an  _O_ shape until he’s bucking beneath her, his eyes almost rolling back in his head.  “Have a heart, Swan, I’m begging you.”

She grabs a handful of his hair, then bites his jaw, the hot sweep of her tongue making him shudder. “Actually, I think it’s time we talked about your punishment for following me this morning,  _mate._ ” She takes his earlobe between her teeth, one hand tight in his hair, the other still tormenting him, and he thinks one more good bite might just push him right over the edge. “Now that you mention it, I have a few ideas myself.”

 

~*~

 

Killian  _tsks_ under his breath as he brushes his thumb over the dull red marks on her throat, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “Looks like you’ll be wearing a turtleneck to work tomorrow, love. Sorry about that.”

Emma’s pretty sure that if she enlisted the help of a forensic investigator, they’d pronounce the red marks in question an exact match for a certain someone’s dental records.  Knowing he’s bearing similar marks on his stomach and hipbone underneath his crumpled shirt and boxer shorts, she merely gives his reflection a smug smile.  “I don’t have to go to work tomorrow, remember?”

His face falls. “You mean I’m going to have to drag myself out of a warm bed with you in it and trudge to the train station alone?”

She grins, bumping her hip against his as she unearths a hairbrush from the top drawer of the vanity. “Sucks to be you, Jones.”

They’re in their shared bathroom (this weekend has definitely given new meaning to the word  _shared_ , she thinks), trying to make themselves halfway respectable before David and Mary Margaret arrive home.  Emma hasn’t looked at the time since she crawled into bed beside a sleeping Killian, but judging from the quiet grumbling of her stomach, it must be getting close to six.  “Speaking of warm beds, how exactly is this going to work?”  He gives her a faintly puzzled glance, and she realises that her question’s a little vague. “Logistically, I mean, location-wise.”

Comprehension dawns, and he moves to stand behind her, watching as she starts to brush her hair. “We could always alternate between bedrooms.”

“I guess.” She thinks of her light and airy bedroom, which also has the advantage of containing all her clothes. “My room _is_  bigger, though.”

His reflection raises one eyebrow. “Yes, but my room doesn’t share a wall with the bathroom.”

She puts down the hairbrush, then lifts her hands to her hair to pull it back into a loose ponytail. “So the pipes gurgle now and then.  You’ll get used to it.”

He tugs gently at the end of her ponytail. “Ah, but my room is further away from the master bedroom.”

“Good point.” His mention of the master bedroom has Emma realising one very important thing. “God, we’re going to have to tell the others.”

She hears the smile in his voice as he kisses the back of her neck. “I know it’s been a busy weekend, darling, but surely you hadn’t forgotten that our housemates have no clue as to the status upgrade in our relationship?”

Reaching behind her, she pinches his ribs. “Maybe we could keep it a secret for a while.”

“I’m trying very hard not to take that personally.” He gently bites the back of her neck, his hands coming up to cup her braless breasts through her t-shirt.  She remembers how he’d done the same thing earlier when he’d been buried deep inside her, his breath hot on her skin as he’d groaned out her name.

She grips the edge of the vanity as his thumb teases her nipple through her shirt, unable to stop herself from pressing back against the thrust of his erection. “It’s not that I don’t want Mary Margaret and David to know, maybe I just don’t want them to know yet.”

“What don’t you want us to know yet?”

_Shit._

Killian immediately drops his hands at the sound of David’s voice, and Emma lets go of the vanity, her cheeks flaming, tugging at the hem of Killian’s ancient t-shirt in a pointless attempt to make it reach past mid-thigh.   _At least she’s wearing underpants,_  she thinks in mortification, then directs a (hopefully) casual grin towards the bathroom doorway.

“David, hi!  We didn’t hear you come in, sorry.”

“Yes, and I can see why.”  David is leaning against the door frame, looking at them as if he can’t decide whether to put his hands over his eyes or be smug that his meddling had apparently paid off.  He opens his mouth to say something else, then there’s a dark head bobbing behind his shoulder.

“What are you all doing in here -  _oh_!”

 _Oh, my God._   Emma feels like her face might just go up in flames, but Killian, damn him, barely seems to bat an eyelid as he smoothly maneuvers her to stand in front of him, shielding his bottom half from their housemates.  “Dave!  Mary Margaret!  You’re home early.”

Mary Margaret must be standing on tiptoe in order to see over David’s shoulder, Emma decides.  “Actually, we’re an hour later than we said we’d be, traffic was terrible,” she points out in a faintly dazed voice, her gaze sweeping over both of them.  “It’s after seven o’clock.”

The brief silence that follows is a whole lot of things - expectant, pointed and really,  _really_ awkward. What it definitely isn’t, Emma realises, is disapproving, and she feels herself relax as she gives the other couple a small wave, doing her best to pretend that Killian’s erection isn’t digging insistently into her ass.  “Um, well, welcome home?”

“Thanks.” Mary Margaret suddenly seems to having trouble keeping a straight face, and Emma finds herself grinning in response.  “We picked up some takeout on the way if you’re hungry.”  She tugs on David’s sleeve, urging him out of the bathroom doorway and into the hallway. “Once you’ve put some pants on, of course.”

Killian protests mildly, his hands still gripping Emma’s hips.  “I’d like to point out that I  _am_ actually wearing pants.”

“Boxers don’t count,” Mary Margaret shoots back, averting her gaze from said boxers with a determination that has Emma grinning even more.

Hidden from sight of the other two, Killian pats her ass in a way that she can only assume is meant to be reassuring. “We’ll be right there, and we can catch up on each other’s news.”

David shakes his head as he reaches for the door handle. “If your news is that the two of you finally came to your senses, I think we’ve already worked that one out.”

Killian waves his hand (the one that’s not still copping a feel) with a flourish. “Ah, yes, but that was only _one_  of the intriguing developments while you were away.”

David pulls the bathroom door shut behind him, but not before he graces them with a roll of his eyes. “See you in the kitchen when you’re decent, kids.”

In the sudden silence that comes after the door firmly shut, Emma is very much tempted to giggle. “Okay, is it just me, or do you feel like we just got busted by our parents?”

“Sadly, yes.” Killian grins as he bends his head to her throat, his mouth hot on her skin as he cups her breast through her borrowed t-shirt once more, obviously undeterred by the interruption. “Although there’s something to be said for a furtive make-out session behind closed doors.”

A beat of desire pulses between her legs as he rubs his palm in circles over one breast, and she smacks his hand away, telling herself she’ll make it up to him (and herself) later.  “Maybe later, hmm? I think we’ve traumatised David enough for one night.”

They part company then, heading to their respective bedrooms to make themselves respectable.  Despite Killian’s mild protests against that particular figure of speech ( _I’ll need more than a few minutes in my case, Swan)_ he manages to beat her into the kitchen _._  As she walks down the hallway, she can hear the unmistakable sound of his laughter mingled with David’s, then she hears David say in a teasing voice, “Come on, pay up.”

As she reaches the kitchen (which smells like Mexican food, praise be) Emma hears a feminine  _humph,_ then sees Mary Margaret sliding a crisp twenty dollar bill across the table.  “I guess I should be grateful I didn’t wager fifty.”

David grins as he slips the money into his back pocket.  “Always a pleasure doing business with you, my love.”

“What was that about?” Emma stares at them, then at Killian, who just shrugs, his grin a match for David’s. “Wait, were you two  _betting_  on us?”

Apparently completely unapologetic, Mary Margaret just smiles, while David is still smirking like the damned Cheshire Cat. “We both knew it was going to happen, but I thought it would take Killian actually moving out to force your hand.  David was more optimistic.”

And just like that, Emma’s pretty sure her face is bright red all over again.  Killian, however, just slouches against the kitchen counter, clearly amused by the situation. “Well, he  _was_ the one running interference between Emma and my good self, so I can’t help but feel that he cheated.”   He looks at the alleged cheater in question, grinning. “Fancy a beer?”

“Actually, I had something more festive in mind.” Moving to the refrigerator, David pulls a bottle of champagne from the door, waving it with at the room in general.  “We’ve got something to tell you.”

Mary Margaret gets to her feet and crosses to David’s side as she holds up her left hand.  Emma stares, her eyes widening at the flash of a diamond, sharp and bright, beneath the kitchen lights.  “David wanted to ask my mom for her blessing before he asked  _me_ ,” the other woman adds as she blushes a delicate pink. “Luckily for him, we both said  _yes_.”

“Holy crap, you’re engaged?” Emma is across the kitchen before she even realised she’s moving, pulling Mary Margaret into a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Mary Margaret’s cheek is damp with tears against hers, and Emma feels her own eyes start to blur.  “We wanted you guys to be the first to know.”

Over her friend’s shoulder, she sees Killian given David one of those ridiculous, roughhousing man-hugs.  “Well, that’s quite the grown up thing, Dave.” He pats David on the back, beaming. “Well done, mate.”

“You’re telling me.” David looks at Mary Margaret with such obvious adoration that Emma suddenly feels like they’re intruding.  “I’m still pinching myself that someone so amazing would agree to be my wife.”

Emma’s eyes blur with tears, and she starts to laugh as she dashes them with the back of her hands.  “God, I’m not going to survive the wedding, am I?”

Mary Margaret is laughing too, her hands warm as she grips Emma’s. “Waterproof mascara will definitely be the way to go.”

Emma gives David a tight hug and kisses his cheek, feeling Killian watching her as he pulls four champagne flutes from the cupboard.  She feels weirdly shy about meeting his gaze, and she’s not quite sure why.  This thing between them has only just officially gotten off the ground, and now their two best friends in the world are getting married.

Everything around her seems to be changing, and changing fast.

To her relief, David pipes up with the perfect conversational distraction.  “So, other than the two of you deciding to stop being the most stubborn idiots in Boston and hook up with each other, what else did we miss?”

“I have to say that I’ve missed your particularly charming turn of phrase this weekend, Dave.” Killian smiles at Emma as he gives her a nod of encouragement, and she takes a deep breath.

“Walsh was arrested today on charges of breaking and entering and the importation of illicit substances.” She suddenly finds herself fighting the urge to laugh, because it sounds like something out of a cheesy crime thriller when she says it out loud. “Oh, and I helped the cops take him down, so there’s that.”

David and Mary Margaret’s mouths seem to fall open in unison, their eyes ever wider than when they’d walked in on them in the bathroom.

“And _I_  managed to punch him in the face before the authorities hauled him away.” Killian brandishes the bottle of champagne at the three of them.  “All things considered, I think it’s time for a celebratory.”

“Not for me, thanks, I’m pregnant,” Mary Margaret says almost absentmindedly, then claps her hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with laughing disbelief.  “Shoot. I did  _not_  mean to announce it like that.”

Emma stares at her friend.  “Seriously?”  Mary Margaret nods, and Emma hugs her again, at a loss for words.  Putting her hands on her friend’s shoulders, she takes a step back, teasingly looking her up and down.  “Are you sure?”  Emma can hear the tears in her voice, a perfect match for the tears glittering in the other woman’s eyes. “You look exactly the same to  _me_.”

Grinning, Mary Margaret pulls up the hem of sweater to expose the tiniest hint of a belly, something that could easily be explained away by an oversized lunch.  “Twelve weeks tomorrow, so my mom’s doctor says.”

“That much already?”  Emma feels almost giddy at the rapid fire developments happening around her. “I guess that explains your recent obsession with clam chowder.”

“There was also some throwing up.” Her friend dimples at her. “I didn’t share that with everyone, though.”

“Bloody hell.”  Killian kisses Mary Margaret on the cheek, then shakes David’s hand so enthusiastically Emma’s afraid he might wrench the other man’s arm out of its socket. “It’s official, mate. You two definitely win the breaking news contest.”

Emma looks at Killian’s face. Beneath his shell-shocked expression, there’s something else. Something that makes her heart flutter and her stomach tighten.

Something that looks a lot like envy.

Before Emma has time to properly digest this thought, Mary Margaret grabs her hands again, her green gaze alight with joy, and she feels the unfamiliar press of her friend’s engagement ring.  “But tell me about the two of  _you_!  How did this happen?”  Mary Margaret is beaming at her like a proud parent, which is freaking her out a little, to be honest. “Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”

“You know, I’m right here,” protests Killian mildly, looking up from the task of uncorking the champagne, in the same instant that David chimes in with a gruff, “Okay, _that_  would be something I truly don’t need to know.”

Emma takes a deep breath.  And this would be why, she thinks wearily, she was tempted to keep things with Killian a secret, at least for a few days.  “Maybe we should eat first, what do you think?”   She reaches for the paper bag of takeout, grateful for the excuse to change the subject.  “Thanks for picking up dinner on the way home.”

“Just as well we did.” David smirks as he takes a filled champagne flute from Killian and hands it to her.  “You two certainly didn’t  _look_  like you were planning what to eat tonight.”

Taking the champagne, Emma gives him an innocent smile in return.  “Well, technically, that’s not exactly true.”

She hears Killian’s throaty,  _dirty_  chuckle as David’s eyes widen in alarm (just as she’d hoped), the double entendre hitting home. “Good grief,” he mutters before neatly sidestepping her to start pulling four dinner plates from the cupboard. “Who wants tacos?”

One hand poised to grab a handful of napkins, Emma watches her three friends (he’s so much more than that now, but she’ll never stop thinking of Killian as her friend) as they banter over the containers of salsa and sour cream, working to throw together an instant dinner the way they’ve done countless times before.  She watches Killian as he piles the flatware onto the kitchen table, his smile bright as he listens to something Mary Margaret is telling him about one of their many overdone Thanksgiving dinners.

Thinking of the wistful expression that had crept over his face when Mary Margaret had told them she was pregnant, Emma’s fingers tighten around the stem of her glass.   She’s not panicking, not really, but a large glass of champagne suddenly seems like a very good idea.

 

~*~

 

“So. Walsh.”

Emma curls her hands around her steaming mug of tea.  She and Mary Margaret are alone in the kitchen, having dispatched the menfolk, as her friend likes to call them, into the living room. Ostensibly to watch television, but it’s really just a way to grab some privacy.  After having to make do with Kathryn’s much more restrained version of female solidarity, Emma realises how just much she’s missed talking to her oldest friend this week.

“It’s been a crazy couple of days.”

Smiling, Mary Margaret shakes her head as she adds another squirt of honey to her tea.  “And here I thought I’d be the one with the crazy stories after celebrating two family-filledThanksgivings.”   She stirs her tea, then looks at Emma expectantly.  “I’m all ears.”

Emma does her best to condense the story into a shortened version, but Mary Margaret keeps interrupting her to ask a question or clarify something.  Or, much to Emma’s quiet amusement, when she feels the need to gasp with gratifying astonishment.  “He did  _not_!”

Emma, having just finished regaling Mary Margaret with the story of the yellow bag, leans back in her chair, suddenly feeling quite drained.  “He did.”

“What a - a-  _scumbag_!” Her friend looks both furious  _and_  at a loss for words. “Emma, I’m  _so_  sorry.”

“I’m okay, really.” Emma finishes the last of her tea, then gives the other woman a smile.  “At least I don’t have to worry that my next boyfriend might turn out to be a lowlife drug smuggler.”

Mary Margaret looks confused for a split-second, then grins.  “Oh, that’s  _right,_ you don’t, do you?”   She peers towards the hallway that leads to the living room, then back at Emma.  “Okay, how’s your chance to tell me. What exactly happened between you two while we were away?”

Emma squirms in her chair, feeling uncomfortably like she’s back in high school, but she knows the other woman won’t rest until she knows all the  _romantic_  details. “I broke up with Walsh on Thursday night, I came home to find Killian hanging out with Jane.  He and I had a big fight in the kitchen, he stormed off to take Jane home, I sulked, then Kathryn called me to ask if she could come over.  She told me the bad news about Walsh, and I sulked some more, then Killian came home.  I told him about Walsh, told him I was sorry about fighting with  _him_ , then he told me that he loved me.”

Mary Margaret stares at her.  “Wow.”

Emma grins.  “Yeah.”

Before Mary Margaret can ask her any more questions (more to the point, any awkward sex-related questions), Emma leans across the table and grabs her friend’s hand, a wave of excitement rippling through her.  “You’re having a  _baby_.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes light up. “Yep.”

“You’re getting  _married_!”

Her friend’s smile seems to reach from ear to ear.  “I  _know_ , right?”

Emma takes a laughing peek at the other woman’s still flat belly.  “And which one will we be celebrating first?”

Mary Margaret squeezes Emma’s hand.  “Now  _that_ , we’ve actually decided.”  She tilts her head towards the hallway. “You know how traditional David is-”

“A regular Prince Charming,” Emma teases, enjoying the sight of her pregnant, engaged-to-be-married friend blushing like a schoolgirl.

“As I was saying, he was a bit reluctant at first to do things  _backwards_ ,” She pauses to share a complicit eye-roll with Emma, “but I just told him that I didn’t want to plan a wedding while I had morning sickness and was going up a dress size every month.”

“And what he say?”

Emma already knows the answer, of course.  Right from the first day they’d met, it had been obvious that David Nolan’s plan had been to give Mary Margaret Blanchard the happy ending he felt she deserved.

“He said he’d never thought of it like that, and of course he was happy to wait until we were ready.”  Mary Margaret puts her free hand on her belly.  “All three of us.”

Something deep in Emma’s chest tightens.  _A baby. They’re having a baby._ “Damn it.”  She wipes her eyes with a self-conscious snort of laughter, because of  _course_ she’s tearing up again.  “I’m so happy for you.”

“I know you are, which is why I promise I won’t make you wear an ugly dress if you promise to be my maid of honor.”  

Emma blinks away the blur of tears, feeling her smile stretch across her face. “Is this you officially asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I will.” Emma grins at her. “Even if it was the ugliest dress in Boston, I’d suck it up and hold your damned bouquet for you.”

The other woman’s smile could literally power half of Boston. “Killian will be David’s best man, obviously, so I hope you two are still talking to each other by the time we get around to tying the knot.”

The teasing words settle like a weight in the pit of her stomach. It must show on her face, because her friend is very quick to reassure her.  “Oh Emma, I was just joking.”  Rising from her chair, Mary Margaret comes to her side, crouching down beside her chair, her slender arms coming around Emma’s shoulders.  “Anyone with eyes can see how much he adores you.”  Her dimples flash as she smiles.  “He always has.”

“I know.”  Emma hesitates, trying to find the words that won’t make her sound like she’s being an idiot.  She’s over the moon for two of her best friends and head over heels for the third, but it’s like she can’t help herself; her brain always has to dart ahead, worrying about the bigger picture.  “It’s just that this weekend’s been full of surprises, and you know how much I love those.”

The other woman’s eyes sparkle with unmistakable joy.  “Change doesn’t always have to be bad.”  Mary Margaret glances down at her belly, then back up at Emma.  “Change can be really,  _really_  good.”

Slinging an arm around her friend, Emma hugs her tightly, wishing she possessed even a fraction of the other woman’s positivity.  “You’re an incurable optimist, and I’m so glad I met you.”

“I have my dark moments, believe me,” Mary Margaret assures her as she gets to her feet, her hand warm on Emma’s shoulder.  “I just prefer to think that a happy ending is always possible, if you work hard enough for it.”

Emma taps her finger on the edge of her empty mug.  When she was with Walsh, she’d never let herself think too much about the future.  Now she knows why - it was easier than admitting that she didn’t think of him as someone she wanted to grow old with.  Now, though, things are very different, and it’s more than a little scary. “It sounds so simple when you say it like that.”

“Well, happy endings aren’t always what we think they’re going to be.” Her friend beams at her, and Emma knows they’re both thinking of Killian.  “But sometimes those are the best ones of all.”

 

~*~

 

“So, engaged to be wed and a father-to-be.”   Killian raises his beer in a toast. “Congratulations on both counts, mate.”

David grins as he props his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table beside Killian’s. “I’m still trying to believe it myself, to be honest.”

“A wee one on the way.”  It seems quite surreal.  “Have I ever mentioned that Killian is a grand name for a baby boy?”

His friend snorts.  “Between two late fathers to be honoured and countless male relatives putting in their two cents for possible boy names, I’m afraid you’re way down the list.”

Killian tuts loudly. “Your loss.“

David strikes a theatrically thoughtful pose. “Although, Killian  _could_ work as a girl’s name, I guess.”

“And to think I was just about to confess that I missed having you around this weekend.”

After they’ve done the customary clinking of their beers, Killian picks at the label of his bottle with his fingernail, trying to find the right words to start the conversation that’s almost burning a hole in his head.  What David has with Mary Margaret is special and precious and so very sure of itself, and it’s everything he wants with Emma.

He wants it all, babies, marriage, the whole kit and kaboodle.  As it stands, however, he and Emma haven’t discussed their future plans past next weekend.   _He_ may have spent the last several years dreaming of impossible dreams of a future with her, but he honestly has no idea if she wants _any_ of those things.

She loves him, and he knows that should be enough. When it comes to Emma Swan, though, he’s realised something very important.

He’s a greedy man.

“Tell me, how did you pop the question to your lovely lady?”  Okay, so it’s not what he really wants to ask, but he’s decided that a more roundabout approach might garner him a more satisfying response.  “Did you do the whole bended knee business?”

“Let me give you a bit of advice, Jones.” David blows out a loud sigh as he sinks back into the couch.  “Whatever you do, don’t propose to Emma during a holiday weekend when you’re tripping over cousins you haven’t seen for two decades and your maiden aunt keeps asking your advice about funeral plans.”

 _Then again, maybe they could get straight to the point_ , Killian thinks, grateful he’d swallowed that last mouthful of beer.  “Who said anything about Emma?”

David gives him a long-suffering look.  “Really?  We’re going to play  _that_  game now?”

Killian has the sneaking suspicion he’s officially spent too long pretending not to be in love with Emma.  It appears the habit has become painfully engrained.  “We haven’t even gone on a proper date yet, mate.”

“You’ve been dancing around each other for almost ten years.”  David reaches for the remote, flicking through the channels until he settles on a late night talk show.  “Surely that counts for something.”

He’s not sure why he’s feeling the need to refute every one of his friend’s points.  Perhaps it’s the lawyer in him, perhaps it’s something else. “Believe me, I’m all for going faster, but she’s only  _just_  ended things with Walsh.”

David, it appears, isn’t buying that argument. “Who turned out to be the complete loser you always said he was.”

Killian feels a rush of grim satisfaction. “Actually, I believe the term I used was  _utter wanker_.”

“You know what I mean.”

Killian puts his half-finished beer on the coffee table, officially deciding he’s imbibed enough this weekend. “Look, we’re just taking things slow right now.”

“You two have taken  _slow_  to the next level.”  Reaching sideways, David pats his shoulder.  “I think you’re good to pick up the pace a little.”

Something clicks into place in Killian’s head, something that feels right and utterly sure of itself.  “Right.”  He gets to his feet, the urge to seek Emma out suddenly overwhelming.  “In that case, there’s no time like the present.”

David calls after him as he starts to walk out of the living room.  “Oh, and you’re going to be my best man, in case you were wondering.”

Killian grins, running a deliberately preening hand through his hair.  “Wise choice, mate. Having Victor would have been rather awkward.”

David scowls at him.  “Just for that, I think I’ll enforce a  _no beards_  rule for the bridal party.”

“Joke’s on you, Dave.”  Killian strokes his chin in the manner of a cartoon villain (as Emma likes to tell him), grinning at his old friend. “I’ve been told I’m even more devilishly handsome without it.”

A cushion thuds harmlessly against the living room wall next to him as he departs, and he grins.  He  _has_  missed having Dave around.

To his surprise, there is no sign of Emma in the kitchen.  Mary Margaret looks up at him from the sink, where she’s rinsing two empty mugs.  “She’s gone up to the roof garden, I think.”

Looking at the oversized clock on the wall (another legacy from Walsh’s store, perhaps Emma will want to replace it, and he’d be only too happy to help), he frowns.  “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“You know Emma.” Mary Margaret’s smile is gently reassuring.  “Sometimes she needs a little time alone to process things.”

His heart lurches as he glances towards the door that leads to the stairs to the roof. “Is she alright?”

His housemate dries her hands, then hooks the dish towel back in place.  “I think she just had a glimpse into the future.”  Before he can process this worrying statement, Mary Margaret crosses the kitchen to his side, slipping her arm around his shoulders to give him a surprisingly bruising hug.  “I’m very happy for you both.”

He takes her left hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her engagement ring.  “That’s my line, surely.”

Mary Margaret grins. “She’s always been different around you, you know?  Right from that very first day.”  She shakes her head in faint wonderment.  “I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on it sooner.”

Killian gestures down the hallway to the living room.  “You had enough to worry about with my mate Dave, I suspect.”

Her eyes light up.  “I know. Aren’t I lucky?”

Leaving the newly-engaged couple to their own devices, he takes a moment to grab Emma’s favourite woolen cap from her room, then pulls on a pair of sneakers.  He’s used to Emma retreating to her bedroom when she wants to be alone, but it appears that the crossing of the line between housemate and lover has send her in search of a new sanctuary.  Just before he steps out into the small rooftop garden area, he hesitates.  Perhaps he should let her come to him in her own time, he muses, then looks at the beanie in his hand.  If she wants him to make himself scarce, she’ll let him know. In the meantime, she won’t catch a chill.

The cold night air makes him suck in a sharp breath.  To call their rooftop area a garden is being generous (a few potted palms and herbs do not a garden make) but Emma and Mary Margaret have made it look rather welcoming.  There are strings of yellow lights glowing overhead, and enough small solar laps dotted about the place to give sufficient light to not trip over his own feet.  The faint scent of night-flowering jasmine tints the air, apparently enjoying one last hurrah before the onset of winter.

It’s a pretty sight, but he only has eyes for Emma.  She’s sitting at the wooden table, her arms wrapped around herself, her gaze directed skyward.  She doesn’t turn her head as he approaches, but she’s obviously been expecting him.  “It’s hard to see the stars properly when you’re in the city.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there, though.”   He bends to press a kiss to the top of her head, then slips the knitted cap onto her silken hair, tugging it down gently.

She looks up in surprise, smiling as she puts up a hand to touch the beanie.  “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.” He pulls a chair to her side, then drops into it, framing her knees with his.  “You okay, love?”

She nods, taking his hand in hers, her fingers cold against his skin. “I’m just thinking about something Walsh said a few weeks ago.”

Oh, how he looks forward to the day when that bloody demon’s name is no longer invoked.  “Well, there’s your first problem.”

She threads her fingers through his, then rests their entwined hands on his thigh. “It was when he was trying to convince me to move in with him.”

Again, he can’t help himself. “One of the many, many times.”

Again, she ignores the sarcastic dig, obviously understanding that he’s mocking Walsh, not her. “He said my friends wouldn’t always be around to provide the substitute home I was so obviously craving, that David and Mary Margaret were the type to run off and live happily ever after on their own.”  She looks at him then, her eyes as clear and glowing as sculptured emeralds. “He also said that  _you_ weren’t the type to stick around to babysit me, and I’d end up alone.”

There’s a hesitancy in her final words that gouges into his heart. “Please tell me you didn’t believe a word of that tripe?”

“Well, he was right about one thing.”  She gestures towards the door that leads to the stairs. “David and Mary Margaret aren’t going to want two extra bodies hanging around once their baby arrives.”

“As much as it pains me, I do agree with Monkey Boy on that point.”  He brings their entwined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.  “We both know that David’s always had a craving for the whole house-garden-dog scenario.”  He shoots Emma what he hopes is a lighthearted smile over their hands. “The man’s obviously a glutton for punishment when it comes to domestic chores.”  

Emma gnaws at her bottom lip, clearly still wrestling with some internal conundrum, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket with his free hand.  “As to the rest of your ex-boyfriend’s absurd prattle, I’m afraid he had it all wrong.”

She frowns at the phone screen, making an adorably puzzled picture, especially with that little woolen cap. “What am I looking at?”

He pushes the phone closer to her with one finger. “It’s a real estate website.”

She gives him the look he’s always thought of as her  _really?_ face. “I can see that, but why am I looking at it?”

“I’m in this for the long haul, love.”  He points at the homepage of the real estate website, glowing brightly in the half-darkness around them.  “When you’re ready, when you see something that takes your fancy, let me know and I’ll arrange a viewing.”

She stares at him. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

His heart sinks at the faint panic in her voice. “Well, I prefer to think of it as the two of us moving in  _together_ , but yes.”

Her gaze searches his, as if she’s afraid he’s teasing her. “Just you and me?”

“Yes.”  He bumps his knee against hers. “A place where we can passionately argue over whose turn it is to make breakfast and which movie to rent to our hearts’ content.”  Releasing her hand, he shifts closer, holding her gaze with his.  “Look, I know this is a huge step to take, but-”

“February works for me.”

He blinks, his pulse doing an odd little jig. “Does it now?”

“Yep.”  She leans forward, putting her hands on his knees, invading his personal space in the most enjoyable of ways. “We’ll have lived under the same roof for a year by then, so I’ll guess we’ll know for sure if we can stomach each other.”

He doesn’t say that he’s already beyond certain he’ll be able to stomach her, as she puts it, for the rest of his life.  There’s no sense in plying her with too much information in one weekend, after all.  “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.”

She rolls her eyes at that, but her tender smile ruins the effect. “God, who knew you’d turn out to be such a sentimental sap?”

“One likes to observe the appropriate traditions, love, which reminds me.” He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with Boston’s cold night air, his heart longing for an entirely different city. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

“I haven’t thought about it, to be honest.”  Her corners of her mouth quirk upwards in a self-depreciating smile. “What about you?”

“Liam’s been at me to come home for a visit over Christmas.”  Disappointment flickers across her lovely face at his reply, and it almost breaks his heart that she’s so quick to assume that his plans wouldn’t include her. Grabbing her hand, he lifts it to his mouth for another kiss. “Come with me?”

Her eyes widen.  “To England?  For Christmas?”

“Trust me, they’d love to have you.”

“Killian-”

“I’d love it, too.  Not to have you, although  _that_ goes without saying, obviously-” Bloody hell, he sounds like a bumbling schoolboy, and her silence only seems to be encouraging his tongue to run amok. “Look, I know it’s not the tropical sun and sand you’ve been dreaming about, but-”

“No, it’s not that.”  She grips his hand a little tighter, and he’s startled to see that her eyes are suddenly brimming with tears.  “God, this is going to sound stupid.”

He touches her face, stroking her damp cheek with his thumb. “Tell me.”

She sniffs loudly, then shrugs. “It’s just that I haven’t spent many Christmases with a real family, you know?”

_Oh, Emma._

His throat feels tight, the weight of her unhappy past like clutching hands at his voice.  Finally, he cups her face in both hands, his eyes never leaving hers.  “What’s mine is yours, Swan, and that includes my idiot brother and his lovely wife and child.”

Tears are still glittering in her eyes, but she’s smiling now, her cheeks shifting against his palms.  “Don’t forget the criminally adorably puppy.”

“How could I?”  He brushes his lips against hers, once, softly.  “Who knows how long it would have taken for us to come to our senses if Liam hadn’t sent that photograph.”

Her fingers dig into his knees as she leans closer, then she kisses the corner of his mouth, her words warm against his kin. “We should take a treat to say thank you.”

There’s a lump in his throat, because apparently she’s not only just agreed to spend Christmas with him in London, she wants to move into a place of their own two months after that _._ “I agree.” Somehow, he manages to get the words out without sounding like a bumbling fool. “For the puppy, that is. Not for Liam. His ego already knows no bounds.”

“Must run in the family.” She’s still grinning when she kisses him again, her teeth bumping his gently before she tilts her head, her lips parting like a blossoming flower beneath his, and there are no more words, only sighs and murmurs and gasps as cold hands brush against warm skin.  

The cold finally drives them downstairs, where they find a mostly darkened apartment, their returned housemates having retired for the evening.   “I’d gotten used to having the place to ourselves,” Emma hisses at him in a dramatic whisper as they walk down the hallway, and he wiggles his eyebrows at her.

“Come February, Swan, you’ll be able to make as much noise as you like.”

She shakes her head at him.  “How you can make such ordinary words sound so filthy is beyond me.”

He tugs on a strand of bright hair where it’s escaped from her woolen cap. “It’s a gift.”

They sleep in her room that night.

He barely notices the sound of the gurgling water pipes.  All he knows is Emma, soft and warm against him beneath the covers, her soft breathing setting a rhythm for his own heartbeat.  “I love you,” he whispers to her as sleep threatens to claim him, one weary hand smoothing back the bright hair from her face.  “Happy Thanksgiving, Swan.”  Perhaps it’s just wishing thinking, but he’s almost certain she smiles in her sleep.

Closing his eyes, he wraps his arm around her waist, anchoring himself to her in the darkness, and decides that he’s a fan of this particular American holiday tradition after all.

 

~*~


	16. Chapter 16

~*~ 

 

It’s cold on the roof, but Emma doesn’t want to head downstairs, not yet.  Wrapping her arms around herself, she tilts back her head and closes her eyes, trying to reconcile the dozen different directions in which her emotions have scattered.

Mary Margaret and David are getting married. They’re having a  _baby._   

She’s not going to lie; it feels weird, and not because she actually felt her  _own_ womb twinge at the sight of Mary Margaret’s blissful smile when she’d announced her news.

Between Killian and Walsh, the last couple of days have been enough of a game-changer as far as her life is concerned.  But now, with Mary Margaret and David starting a little family of their own,  _everything_  is going to be different.

Emma scrunches her eyes shut a little tighter. They’re all approaching thirty and this kind of happy ending was always on the cards for those two, but dealing with rapid change has never been her strong suit.

For one thing, she’s going to have to move out. Opening her eyes, Emma stares at the night sky above, her vision blurring with both the cold night air and the sudden onset of tears. 

 _Shit._  

She’s beyond happy for David and Mary Margaret. She  _is_.  She can’t  _wait_  to be completely overrun by baby shower and engagement and wedding plans and spend hours trawling through social media websites for inspiration and listen to Mary Margaret change her mind a hundred times about baby names.

She’s still going to have to move out, though, and she can’t pretend the prospect doesn’t make her heart hurt. 

She’s lived in a hell of a lot of places in her life, and not one of those places has even come close to feeling like home the way this apartment does.  A sudden, unpleasant thought slides into her head, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t shove it aside. 

This won’t be the first time she’s had to leave a place that had come to feel like home because a baby was on the way. She barely remembers the Swans, but all her life she’s carried the knowledge that as soon as they were able to have a baby of their own, they didn’t want her anymore.  

Scowling, Emma gives herself a mental shake.  She’s almost thirty now, not three.  Mary Margaret and David are her friends, not her foster parents.  She thought she’d finally put all that crap behind her, but apparently there is still some part of her that’s still three years old and bearing the scars of that particularly stinging rejection.

As the dark sky shakes and shivers above her - stupid watering eyes - she thinks of what Walsh had said the night when he’d proposed to her and she’d found out the truth about him.  That she was only kidding herself that she’d really found a home with her friends.  That they were all going to leave her in the end.

Emma frowns at the sky, the distant stars seeming even further away.  Walsh was a liar and a fraud, but he’d been painfully good at pushing her buttons, right up to the bitter end.  David and Mary Margaret love her like she’s family, she knows that, but they’re going to want a place of their own once the baby comes, and Emma doesn’t blame them.

Which just leaves her and Killian.

She rubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to keep the goosebumps at bay. She’s loved living in this apartment, but maybe it’s time she admitted the real reason why this place has come to feel like a real home.

She closes her eyes again in faint despair. Killian loves her, she knows that.  That doesn’t mean he’s going to want to jump straight into living together, just the two of them.  They’ve only  _just_  started dating.  God, they haven’t even  _been_  on a real date yet. 

As if the thought has conjured him up like a magical incantation, she hears the familiar, quiet tread of Killian’s sneakers on the pavers behind her.   She blinks rapidly, relieved that any glassiness can be explained by the cold night air, then tosses a casual greeting over her shoulder. “It’s hard to see the stars properly when you’re in the city.”

She can hear the smile in his voice. “Doesn’t mean they’re not there, though.”  He drops a kiss on the top of her head, his mouth lingering on her hair as the familiar scent of him teases her nose, then she feels something else being tugged down on her head. 

A quick exploratory hand confirms that he’s brought her beanie, and even if it was just an excuse to come in search of her, the gesture makes her chest tighten.

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.” Dragging a chair closer, he sinks down into it, his legs on either side her hers, his gaze mildly concerned.  “You okay, love?”

She hesitates, but only for a few seconds. They’ve made too much progress this weekend for her to slide back into dancing around how she feels.  She reaches for his hand, smiling as he jumps slightly at the first touch of her cold fingers. “I’m just thinking about something Walsh said a few weeks ago.”

He doesn’t exactly roll his eyes, but she sees the way his jaw tightens at the mention of the other man’s name.  “Well, there’s your  _first_ problem.”

His palm fits perfectly against hers, and suddenly her fingers no longer feel cold, not with his touch warming her. “It was when he was trying to convince me to move in with him.”

He quirks one dark eyebrow at her, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smirk. “One of the many,  _many_  times.”

She lets that one go as well, because he’s earned the right to be a little obnoxious when it comes to Walsh, then takes a deep breath. “He said my friends wouldn’t always be around to provide the substitute home I was so obviously craving, that David and Mary Margaret were the type to run off and live happily ever after on their own.”   His hand tightens on hers, and she quickly goes on, knowing he’s two seconds away from reassuring her and she’s afraid if she doesn’t get this out  _now,_  she might never say it. “He also said that  _you_ weren’t the type to stick around to babysit me, and I’d end up alone.”

He stares at her, disbelief shimmering in his bright blue eyes.  “Please tell me you didn’t believe a word of that tripe?”

Somehow, she keeps talking instead of putting her arms around his neck and burrowing into the solid sanctuary of him.  “Well, he was right about one thing.”  She flicks a pointed hand in the direction of the stairs that lead down to their apartment, trying and failing to stop her voice from quaking. “David and Mary Margaret aren’t going to want two extra bodies hanging around once their baby arrives.”

The disbelief in his face changes, becoming tender, almost wistful. “As much as it pains me, I do agree with Monkey Boy on that point.”  Before she knows it, he’s lifted their clasped hands to his mouth and his lips are warm against her knuckles.  “We both know that David’s always had a craving for the whole house-garden-dog scenario,” he tells her with a quick grin. “The man’s obviously a glutton for punishment when it comes to domestic chores.”  

Her heart seems to sink inside her chest.  She knows he’s right, but he still hasn’t said anything about what  _his_  plans for the future might be, and she finds herself chewing her bottom lip nervously as she waits for him to continue.   _It will be okay,_ she tells herself.   _I’ve lived alone before and I can do it again.  It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me just because he doesn’t want to -_

One hand still holding hers tightly, he fumbles for his phone with the other, the movement interrupting her dismal train of thought.  “As to the rest of your ex-boyfriend’s absurd prattle, I’m afraid he had it all wrong.”   He puts the phone on the table between them, its screen glowing in the darkness, then looks at her expectantly. 

(If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was nervous.)

Squinting at the screen, she silently curses his refusal to upgrade to a model she can actually read without going blind. “What am I looking at?”

His hand twitches around hers as he nudges the phone closer to her with one long index finger. “It’s a real estate website.”

Her heart begins to pound, but she can’t afford to jump to conclusions.  Not with him. Not about this. “I can see that, but why am I looking at it?”

His smile is soft and warm and makes her chest tighten a little bit more. “I’m in this for the long haul, love.”  He leans closer, his eyes locking with hers.  “When you’re ready, when you see something that takes your fancy, let me know and I’ll arrange a viewing.”

She stares at him, the faint sound of her pulse thrumming in her ears.  He wants to find a place to live, just the two of them, together. 

Walsh’s words are suddenly the furthest thing from her mind. Instead, all she can think about is what Mary Margaret had said to her in the kitchen.

_Happy endings aren’t always what we think they’re going to be, but sometimes those are the best ones of all._

Mary Margaret always  _was_  the smart one when it came to this sort of thing.

She licks her lips nervously, the hope shining in his eyes giving her courage. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”  The question comes out a little more panicked than she would have liked, and he clears his throat.

“Well, I prefer to think of it as the two of us moving in  _together_ , but yes.”

Maybe it’s just the cold, but she suddenly feels like her skin is too tight, the blood humming too near the surface. She blinks at him, all her words fleeing in the face of his offer. It’s not even a case of being careful what you wish for, she thinks frantically.  It’s a matter of suddenly being presented with everything you didn’t realise you wanted but now you know you want it more than anything.  “Just you and me?”

He’s not going to leave.

“Yes.”  He ducks his head, grinning into her eyes as his knee knocks against hers.  “A place where we can passionately argue over whose turn it is to make breakfast and which movie to rent to our hearts’ content.”  

He’s not going to leave  _her._

Letting go off her hand, he shifts on his chair until he’s sitting right on the edge of the seat, his expression bordering on worried. “Look, I know this is a huge step to take, but-”

Once upon a time, she would have baulked at this step.  Not just with him, but with anyone. Once upon a time, this question should have sent her running for the nearest exit, terrified of taking the next step towards the point of no return.

Not any more, though, not when it comes him, and the answer is suddenly so easy that she almost laughs as the words come tumbling out of her mouth.

“February works for me.”

Now it’s his turn to blink, and she notes with satisfaction that he looks more than a little dazed by her decisive answer. “Does it now?”

“Yep.”  Her heart is pounding so hard, she imagines she can feel it in her damned eyeballs.  Leaning forward, she puts her hands on his knees, the denim cold beneath her palms. “We’ll have lived under the same roof for a year by then, so I’ll guess we’ll know for sure if we can stomach each other.”

She’s already certain, but there’s no harm in being sensible, and judging by Killian’s grin, he approves of her plan.

 “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.”

She can’t help rolling her eyes, not only because he is just a  _ridiculous_  person, but because she loves him so much right now that it’s almost embarrassing. “God, who knew you’d turn out to be such a sentimental sap?”

His answering smile is giddy enough to make her wonder how many beers he’d had with David while watching TV. “One likes to observe the appropriate traditions, love, which reminds me.”  He picks up her hands again, threading his fingers through hers until their palms are flush. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

“I haven’t thought about it, to be honest.”  She’s actually thought about it plenty, but it had been in the context of trying to pin down  _Walsh_ about their shared plans. She’d never dreamed she’d be having  _this_  discussion. “What about you?”

His smile is faintly sheepish. “Liam’s been at me to come home for a visit over Christmas.”  

 Emma feels her own smile freeze on her lips.

 _Oh._  

She’d been hoping -

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself fiercely.  It won’t be the first time she’s spent the holidays alone.  She does her best to arrange her face into something approaching enthusiasm. Shaking his head at her, Killian kisses the back of her hands in turn, his gaze never leaving her face. “Come with me?”

Her smile unfreezes, but it still feels weird on her lips. “To England?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds small, filled with doubt. “For Christmas?”

“Trust me, they’d love to have you.”

It’s too much, and her words are all scrambled up in her head. “Killian-”

“I’d love it, too. Not to have you, although  _that_ goes without saying, obviously-” To her eternal amusement, he seems to be blushing. “Look, I know it’s not the tropical sun and sand you’ve been dreaming about, but-”

“No, it’s not that,” she assures him in a breathless rush, because she can’t bear him to think that she doesn’t want to be with him, but he wants to spend Christmas with her, wants to take her across the ocean to be with his family for the holidays.  It  _is_  too much, but in the best possible way.  “God, this is going to sound stupid,” she mutters, wishing she had a free hand to dash away the foolish tears that have come out of nowhere. 

As if granting her wish, he releases her hands to reach up and cup her face in his palms, his thumbs warm as they brush across her tear-damped cheek. “Tell me.”

They’re way past the point of being embarrassed about secrets, and it’s with a weird kind of relief that she blurts out the words. “It’s just that I haven’t spent many Christmases with a real family, you know?”

His throat works as he swallows, his eyes glittering. His hands are warm on her face, his expression open and needing and  _hopeful_. “What’s mine is yours, Swan, and that includes my idiot brother and his lovely wife and child.”

His words have her eyes blurring again, but this time she doesn’t care. “Don’t forget the criminally adorably puppy,” she sniffs, and he smiles, his fingertips teasing the sensitive skin just behind her ears, making her shiver with something very different than cold.

“How could I?”  The space between them vanishes in a heartbeat, his lips warm as they touch hers.  He draws back, his mouth curved in a teasing smile. “Who knows how long it would have taken for us to come to our senses if Liam hadn’t sent that photograph?”

She doesn’t want to think about that, because ten fucking years is more than enough time to have wasted.  Shifting forward in her chair, she grips his kneecaps for balance as she presses a kiss of her own to the corner of his smiling mouth.  He tastes like salt and beer, and she wants to take a bite right out of him. “We should take a treat to say thank you.”

“I agree.”  He turns his head, nudging his nose against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. “For the puppy, that is. Not for Liam. His ego already knows no bounds.”

He’s one to talk, she thinks.  “Must run in the family.”  She kisses him before he can protest, and his arms come around her, pulling her onto his lap as though she weighs less than nothing.  She takes a few seconds to worry that the ancient wooden chair might not hold both of them, then loses herself in the heat of his kisses and the feel of his hands stroking her back, his murmured words of love warm against her ear, her heart feeling as though it might just burst, because as long as she’s with Killian, she’ll be home.

~*~

Emma jerks awake, blowing her hair out of her eyes, beyond confused as to why a tinny version of  _Tainted Love_  is suddenly playing in her bedroom in the middle of the goddamned night.

What the hell?

Beside her, there’s a rough groan, then a muscled male arm snakes out from under the covers to snatch the offending phone from the nightstand, and everything comes back in a pleasantly fuzzy rush. It’s obscenely early on a Monday morning and, while she might be in her own bed, she’s definitely not alone.

She flops down beside Killian, who has burrowed back under the covers once again, having tossed his now-silent phone back onto the nightstand.  Grinning, she slips her hand beneath his t-shirt to gently tug on the crisp hair just below his belly button.  “What time is it?”

“Six.”

His voice is deep and gravelly and does odd things to the pit of her belly. Sliding her hand a little higher, she scratches her fingertips across the sculptured muscles of his chest. “So this is how you used to beat me to the bathroom all the time, Jones? Get up at the crack of dawn?”

“Six is hardly the crack of dawn, my darling little slugabed.” He rolls onto his side, trapping her hand between them as he buries his face into the crook of her neck.  “Not everyone has such an understanding boss as yourself, Swan.” 

Closing her eyes, she inhales the scent of him, all sleep-warmed skin and faded aftershave. “What time do you have to be at work?”

There’s a heavy sigh from beneath the covers, then he runs one hand through his already messy hair, then proceeds to scrub his bearded jaw with his palm.  “Nine o’clock staff meeting.”

Emma nestles closer into his side, enjoying the heat of him in her bed. Ordinarily, she’d enjoy nothing more than sleeping until noon on a Monday off work, especially given the frenzy of the last week, but she finds herself willingly offering to join him in getting up early.  If that doesn’t prove she loves him, she thinks dryly, she’s not sure what will. “I can drive you to the train station if you like.”

“There’s no sense both of us having to get up so early,” he protests, his wandering hands completely contradicting his noble protest.

“But I want to.”

Beneath the covers, he gently squeezes her ass, fingertips teasing the lace edge of her underwear. “You just want to drive my car.”

She grins against his shoulder. “Maybe.”  Tangling her legs with his, she bites him gently through his t-shirt, an inch below his collarbone, loving the shudder that goes through him. “Or maybe I just want another hour in bed with you.”           

“Well, when you put it like that-” He reaches for her in a blur of tangled covers, and just like that, he’s on his back and she’s on top of him, their linked hands pressed on either side of his head and he’s looking up at her with a sleepy heat in his eyes that makes her whole body clench in anticipation.

Shifting her thighs, she settles into a more comfortable position, biting her lip at the feel of him beneath her. “So I guess that’s a  _yes_  to a ride to the station?”

He lifts his hips, the heavy ridge of his erection fitting against her with a precision that has her belly clenching hotly.  “A gentleman never refuses the offer of a  _ride_  from a lady, Swan.”

Apparently, it’s never too early for a double entendre when your name is Killian Jones.

She’d roll her eyes, but she’s too busy helping him strip off his t-shirt and letting him return the favour with her favourite sleeping tank.  She’s glad they’re in her bed, because that means she can grab a condom from the top drawer of her nightstand without missing a beat, to so speak. 

Sleepy, early-morning sex has always been one of her favourite things, and now that she’s got a partner who  _really_  knows what he’s doing, she likes it even more.

Early morning sex makes everything feel like it’s in slow motion, blurred around the edges but crystal clear at its heart.  Everything is slower, heavier and thicker, from the thrumming of her pulse to the languid touch of his hands on her breasts to the lazy push and drag of his cock buried deep inside her.  The slow, deep curling of his tongue around hers, the gentle press of his teeth on her bottom lip.  The spicy tang of the skin stretched over his collarbone, smooth and tempting, inviting her to bite and kiss just hard enough to make him groan her name on a shaky breath.

The brush of his soft beard on the nape of her neck, breasts and belly makes every hair on her body stand on end, tightening her nipples to painful points and sending flurries of goosebumps  _everywhere._   The press of his fingertips into the swell of her hips is a wonderful pressure as she rises and falls above him, taking him deeper with every rock of her hips. The quiet groans of pleasure swirl around them like mist in the darkened room, the sighs that brush against her skin with every gasp of sensation. 

Everything swells and tightens and then she’s coming, pleasure unfurling in a hot rush as he arches beneath her, his cock pulsing heavily inside her, his hands buried in her hair as his mouth finds hers, kissing her fiercely as they fall together.

(She can’t help thinking, as she has so often during these last few days, that ten years of foreplay really does have one big freaking silver lining.)

After a long moment of lying boneless with contentment, she lifts one hand and pokes him in the ribs, smiling at the subtle flinch that ripples through him. Mentally filing away the location of the ticklish spot for later use, she drums her fingers gently on his stomach. “Don’t go back to sleep, you’ll be late for work.”

Rolling onto his side, he gathers her in his arms and buries his nose in her tangled hair, his contented sigh warm against her neck. “You should have thought of that before you ravished me so thoroughly, wench.”

Grinning, she untangles her limbs from his, savouring the feel of the soft hair on his legs brushing against her skin, then pushes herself up on one elbow.  “So.”

He beams at her, his fingertips ghosting over her jaw, then the curve of her ear, as if he can’t bear to stop touching her.  “So.”

It might be way too early on a Monday morning, but she feels better than she has in a long,  _long_ time. “It’s a brand new week.” 

“That it is.” Curling his finger gently around a thick rope of her hair, he gives her a bright smile. “The dawn of a brand new era, one could even say.”

She leans into his touch, clucking her tongue teasingly at his declaration. “Always so dramatic.”

“I’m a lawyer, love.”  He presses a warm kiss to the top of her head, still playing with her hair. “They pay me to be dramatic.”

“You’re not at work  _now_ , though,” She skims her hand over the jut of his hip, exploring dips and hollows, lean muscles and crisp hair. In answer, he kisses her again, this time his mouth finding hers in a lazy, studied caress that has them both flushed and a little breathless by the time he pulls back. 

“As much as I would like to stay in this bed with you all day,” he tells her with patent disappointment, “I’m afraid the powers that be would be  _most_ disappointed if I didn’t make an appearance at this morning’s staff meeting.” 

“One day you’ll have your own practice,” she teases him as she stretches her arms high above her head, her words infused with a soft groan as several muscles twinge pleasantly. 

His eyes burn a bright blue trail over her shoulders and the slopes of the breasts bared by a slipping blanket and her stretching routine.  “Only if you promise to help me track down all the naughty clients who refuse to pay their bills on time.”

“Well, that depends,” she shoots back as she flings back the covers and reaches for her robe at the end of the bed, her naked skin prickling at the heat in his appreciative gaze. 

He leans back against the pillows, his hands tucked beneath his head.  “On what?”

Emma bites her bottom lip, her hands tightening on the robe in her hands, because she wants nothing more to crawl up the bed and sink her teeth into the smooth swell of his bicep. “If you can afford my services, of course.”

He grins, a flash of white teeth and dark stubble that makes her insides quiver as if she hasn’t just had one of the best early morning orgasms of her life. “I’m sure we could work something out.”

~*~

In the end, David is the one who gives him a lift to the train station.   After their newly returned housemates subject them to a generous measure of ribbing (including such sidesplitting gems such as _Emma, you don’t usually wear a turtleneck on your day off_ and  _Killian, you don’t usually sleep this late on a Monday_ ), the four of them manage to share a quick breakfast of toast and coffee without too many awkward silences.

Balancing a plate filled with peanut butter smeared toast, Emma slips into the chair opposite him, a mischievous smile curving her lips as she pushes her sock-clad foot between his.  He almost loses his grip on his coffee mug, but he’s quick to recover. It’s been a while since he’s played footsies (as the girls used to call it when he was a lad) under the table with the beautiful woman whose bed he’d shared the night before.  And he’s never before counted the hours until the working day is over so he can happily bicker with said beautiful woman over which television station to watch after dinner.  He shoots her a grin of promise across the small table, and is rewarded by a faint blush staining her high cheekbones.

“Well, this is going to take some getting used to.” David looks as though he’s torn between being smug that his match-matching lectures have come to fruition and being annoyed that now he has to live with the results of his efforts. “Do you two think maybe you could dial back the bedroom eyes until after I’ve finished my coffee?”

Killian is tempted to blow his friend a kiss, but he settles for a smirk. Sitting beside him, Mary Margaret flashes her intended a stern glance across the table. “Hush.”

Emma’s toes brush against Killian’s ankle as she turns to offer David a serene smile. “You’ll miss us when we’re not around to provide you with cheap wisecrack material.”

“Miss you?” Mary Margaret’s dark eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, we, er-” Emma’s gaze flicks to his in mute appeal, and he clears his throat.

“The Lady Swan and I have been discussing our future living arrangements, given that the happy advent of Baby Nolan will no doubt bring about some changes in that area.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen even more as she puts two and two together. “You’re moving out?”

David is looking back and forth between them as though he’s at Wimbledon. “Together?”

“Not until February.” Emma gives his ankle a less-than-gentle nudge, and Killian hastens to help smooth over any ruffled early morning feathers.  He hadn’t banked on having this particular conversation quite so soon, and it feels oddly like being grilled by a girlfriend’s parents.

“I know it’s unexpected, but rest assured, we weren’t planning to leave you in the lurch financially,” he reassures David with a quick smile, and the betrothed couple exchange a sheepish glance that gives him pause. “What?”

“Actually, we’ve been talking about a little place of our own, too,” Mary Margaret admits with a faintly embarrassed smile. “We came up with lots of fun ideas about the kind of house we want while we were driving this weekend.”  Killian literally sees the instant her thoughts turn to Emma. “But that’s still ages away, and the _last_ thing we want is for you to feel as though you have to move out.”  She looks at her friend, her expression tender with worry.  “Even after the baby comes, there would still be room for all of us, I’m sure.”

Emma laughs. “We’d be living on top of each other and you know it.” Reaching across the cluttered kitchen table, she pats the other woman’s hand.   She flashes Killian a smile that makes his heart feel like it’s swelling in his chest, then turns back to her friend.  “It’s okay, I promise. This is what I want. It’s a _good_ change.”  

Feeling his throat tighten at the obvious happiness in her voice, Killian has to fight the urge to pinch himself.   _Bloody hell, how it is even possible that she’s actually mine?_

“I hate to break this up, but it’s 7:45am,” David announces as he drains his coffee cup, jolting Killian back to reality.  “If anyone wants a ride anywhere, I’m leaving now.”

Killian seizes the opportunity to let Emma spend her morning relaxing rather than fighting rush hour traffic.  “A lift to the train station would be most appreciated, mate. That way Emma doesn’t have to lower herself to drive my giant gas guzzler.”

David pushes back his chair. “Done.”  

Emma looks at Killian as he follows suit, her hands still cupped around her half-finished coffee as she mouths a breathy _thank you_.  An odd flush creeps up the back of his neck, and he can feel both David and Mary Margaret watching him with obvious amusement.  

“And what are _you_ two going to do today?” David murmurs as he bends down to kiss the top of Mary Margaret’s dark head.  “Since you’re both ladies of leisure.”

Emma looks at her friend, obviously pleased by this revelation. “You’re not going to work today?”

The other woman grins. “I was worried that we might be late getting home so I put in for a personal day.”

Emma gets to her feet, her hand catching Killian’s as he passes. “Always so prepared,” she quips teasingly in Mary Margaret’s direction, then tugs him close enough to brush his lips with a quick kiss. “See you tonight, Jones.”

His mouth tingling from the brief contact, his hand tightens around hers to stop himself from a display of rather inappropriate touching.  “I’m counting on it.”

“On second thought,” Mary Margaret muses loudly behind them, “maybe some more privacy would do us all some good.”

“Oh, please.” He almost feels Emma bristle, but she’s grinning as she turns to the other woman. “Like I haven’t spent the last ten years averting my eyes from you and Prince Charming out there.”

As if to prove a point, she curls her hand around Killian’s tie and kisses him again, letting him taste coffee and peanut butter and _Emma_ before pushing him towards the hallway leading from the kitchen.  “Play nice with the other kids.”

He winks at her as he gathers his wallet and keys from where he’d stowed them on the counter top. “I’m a lawyer, darling. I never play nice.”

David’s truck has barely made it out of the driveway before the friendly interrogation begins, and Killian quickly realises he’s been duped.  His friend’s offer of a lift was clearly just a ruse to get him alone, and he resigns himself to a barrage of questions for the next fifteen minutes as they crawl through the morning traffic.

“So, you and Emma are already talking about your own little love nest?” David flicks him a sideways glance. “Nice to see you took my advice about picking up the pace instead of trying to take things at an even more glacial pace.”

 _Fifteen minutes of David Nolan being smug_ , Killian thinks with a silent sigh.   _How wonderful._ “Actually, it was Emma who brought up the subject of her future living arrangements.”

“She doesn’t feel as though she has to leave, does she?”  David frowns. “Like Mary Margaret said, that’s the last thing we wanted.”

Killian runs his hand through his hair, making a vague mental note that he should really visit the barber soon. “I notice neither of you rushed to convince _me_ that I don’t have to push off.”

“You’re a big boy, you can cope with rejection.” David’s tone changes from teasing to sombre. “You know why we might be worried about Emma thinking she _had_ to leave.”

“Aye, I do.”  He thinks of Emma’s face as she’d told him of Walshs’ cruel prediction, and a lump forms in his throat.  He decides against telling David that Emma _had_ been fretting about the future. If she wishes to tell them of her concerns, he reasons, that will be up to her.  “She suggested February might be an ideal time for us to strike out on our own.”

“Just in time for Valentine’s Day,” David says cheerfully, and Killian grins.

“That’s exactly what I said.”

David checks his rear vision mirror before changing lanes. “Don’t tell me, she accused you of being sappy.”

“Of course.”

“Nice to know that being in love hasn’t made her any less stubborn.”

To his dismay, Killian feels his face flush.  He’s not in the habit of discussing affairs of the heart with such candour so early in the morning, at least not with his old college friend.  “Says the man who still holds a grudge against Victor Whale for daring to date Mary Margaret over a decade ago.”

David snorts.  “You know, I’m tempted to make you get out and walk the rest of the way to the station, but unfortunately we’re already here.” He manages to find a place to pull up, then waves a jokingly dismissive hand as Killian opens the passenger side door. “Feel free to tell Victor _all_ the latest news next time you talk to him.”

Biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from telling David that Victor is not exactly the sort to be envious of news involving a wedding and a baby, he gives his friend a nod. “Will do.”  He hooks his satchel over his shoulder, then slams the door shut. “Thanks for the lift, mate.”

As he’d suspected it would be, the staff meeting amounts to little more than forty-five minutes of swapping horror stories regarding family dinners.  He tends to be give a free pass on these occasions, not being a local, so to speak, and he’s just settled down to a pleasant session of doodling on a new file pad and mulling over what he and Emma might do this coming weekend when he’s interrupted by a familiar, quiet voice to his right.

“You look like you had a nice Thanksgiving.”

It’s Ariel, looking indecently bright-eyed and cheerful for this time on a Monday morning, a pile of newly created client files sitting on the polished meeting room table in front of her.  

Clearing his throat, he flips his notepad over to a clean page. “What makes you say that?”

“You just looked as though you were thinking lovely thoughts, that’s all,” she says in a rush, nervously toying with the end of her long red ponytail as if she’s suddenly worried she’s overstepped the mark. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”

As is always the case with his relatively new secretary, he’s torn between being amusement and exasperation.  “I _did_ have a nice Thanksgiving, thank you for asking.”  As two of the younger lawyers on the other side of the table swap tales of their respective eating prowess, he digs through his memory, searching for the name of the sweater-wearing giant whose photograph adorns the desk outside his office door.  “As did you and Eric, I hope?”

Ariel’s face turns pink, temporarily clashing with her fiery red hair, her tone becoming almost giddy. “He took me to meet his _parents_.”  She smooths her hands over the top of the pile of files, her smile tremulous with the memory.  “I was _very_ nervous.”

“I’m sure they loved you.”

His secretary’s face lights up like a beacon at sea. “I sure _hope_ so.”  

He has the sudden notion she’s only seconds away from clasping her hands to her heart and bursting into a song about true love conquering all, but thankfully he’s saved by his supervising partner. “Killian, a few minutes of your time to chat about Boyd and Herman?”

He gives Ariel what he hopes is an apologetic smile, then pushes back his chair. “Your office or mine, Kurt?”

The other man waves an easy-going hand in the vague direction of Killian’s office.  “Yours will be fine.”

Kurt Flynn is only fifteen years older than Killian, something Killian often forgets, given the other man’s almost fatherly approach to his team.  He’d made partner before he was thirty and, on the surface, _everything_ he does is easy-going.  Killian’s personal theory is that the New Jersey accent has a lot to do with creating that particular image. When it counts, though, he has a mind like the proverbial steel trap and a habit of always assuming the worst of people, even their own clients.

 _Especially_ their own clients.

Kurt eases himself into the visitor’s chair in Killian’s office and runs a hand through his longer-than-regulation hair. “Okay, lay it on me.”

Killian gives him a brief rundown on the Ashley Boyd and Sean Herman file, what little there is to tell.  He describes Sean’s estrangement from his father after a childhood of emotional abuse, his decision to keep his new family as far away from his unhappy childhood memories as possible, and finally young Ashley’s unflinching bravery when it came to dealing with her infant child’s bully of a grandfather.

When he’s finished, Kurt drums his fingertips thoughtfully on the armrests of his swivel chair. “I had a call from a former colleague of mine about this one on Friday,” he drawls. “Apparently he’s been retained by Sean’s father.”

Killian looks at him, quite sure his opinion of the lawyer in question is written all over his face. “Albert Spencer, I assume.”

“That’s him.”  The other man’s tone is mild, but Killian’s known him long enough to hear the disdain beneath the words. “He thought it worth his while to whisper in my ear about how the poor family had been through enough yadda yadda yadda.”

“And what did you say?”

Kurt smiles, and beneath his benign expression, Killian sees the steely resolve that has lulled many opponents to a sticky end. “I told him we’d see him in court.”

“Excellent.”

Once Kurt is gone (not before promising to violate several copyright laws and burn Killian a copy of Springsteen’s new album), he works his way steadily through his in-box until midday, dealing with the usual post-holiday missives of recrimination and accusation against former life partners.  It’s a stark contrast to the optimistic mood that had buoyed him along for most of the long weekend, and for once he’s glad of Ariel’s habit of popping up in his open doorway like a red-haired jack-in-a-box.  

Just before midday, she darkens his doorway once more, her knock almost melodic. “Mr Morten called but he said he didn’t want to actually talk to you because that would be on the clock.”

Killian sighs at the thought of his most tight-fisted client to date. Many clients prefer to talk to his assistant now and then when they call in the hopes of a smaller bill at the end of the day, but this one takes being resentfully frugal to new heights. “And what did Mr Morten want?”

“He wants to know how detailed you need him to be with his financial statements?”

“Please remind Mr Morten that, as I have told him several times, his soon-to-be-ex-wife has engaged the services of a highly effective forensic accountant."  He keeps his tone light, because the last thing he needs right now is a teary secretary.  “If he doesn’t cop to every single nickel and dime, they _will_ find it. It will then take me five times longer to convince the judge that our settlement offer is made in a spirit of generosity, which means my fees will become _absolutely_ extortionate.”

Ariel blinks at him, her smile wavering, and he gives her a nod of encouragement.  “Did you get all that?”

“Is it okay if I paraphrase?”

He smiles.  “Be my guest.”

His phone beeps with an incoming text, and his secretary slips out of view.  Peering at the screen, Killian feels a rush of quiet elation at the sight of Emma’s name.  He’d been tempted to call her several times, just to hear her voice, but had sternly reminded himself not to act like a lad in the flush of first love.

**MM talked me into having a girls’ day at mall.  My feet are in a tub of foamy stuff and I’m about to wear a green mask that smells like seaweed.  YOU WISH YOU COULD BE THIS RELAXED, JONES.  xo**

His grin widens at the accompanying photograph (she really does have lovely calves, his Swan) his thumbs flying over the keypad.  

**_I’ll have you know I’m confident enough in my masculinity to sport any number of facial masks made of coloured goo.  Do you need me to bring home anything for dinner tonight?_ **

**The pregnant lady wants pasta, so I hope you don’t mind having pasta.**

**_Takes a braver man than I to go against a pregnant lady’s wishes, Swan. X_ ** ****

He composes another new text message, feeling ridiculously nervous as he clicks on his brother’s number.  It’s not as though Liam would refuse him such a request, but having promised Emma a family Christmas, he can’t bear the thought of not being able to keep that promise.

**_Does the standing offer to spend Christmas at yours still stand?_ **

He hits send, then checks the time. It would be just after five in the afternoon in London, and while he’s quite sure Liam is still at work, he’s also sure his brother would be more than happy for a distraction.

Liam’s swift reply reaffirms Killian’s insider knowledge of his brother’s habits, and he smiles as he thumbs at the waiting message.

**Yes, of course.  Why? Are we actually going to be graced with your presence?**

**_That depends.  Were you planning to put me up in an actual bedroom or in the airing cupboard?_ **

**Well, the dog does like hanging out in the spare bedroom, but I suppose we could relocate her to James’ room while you’re here.**

Killian takes another deep breath, then types the words he knows will unleash a storm.

**_Would it be too much of an imposition if I brought someone with me?_ **

Liam’s number flashes on the screen a split-second before the phone starts to ring in his hand, and Killian shakes his head.  Obviously, interrogating him by text message wasn’t enough for his brother, and he vaguely wonders if it’s too early to head out for a lunch time beer.  “Hello?”

His brother gets straight to the point.  “Please tell me it’s Emma and if it _is_ Emma, you’re not bringing her as _just a friend_ like a complete prat who can’t sort his life out to save himself _._ ”

“It’s Emma.”  He feels his face split in a grin at the mere mention of her name, and is suddenly very glad they’re not Skyping.  “And definitely not _just friends_.”

“Thank God.”  In the background, he can hear the frantic sound of typing.  “Hang on, I just have to update Annie.”

Killian blinks. “I’m sorry, are you and your wife liveblogging my life?”

At the other end of the telephone line, his brother is unapologetic.  “Technology is a godsend for tired parents looking for cheap entertainment, my lad.”

He’d be annoyed at this shameless show of gossiping, but he’s in too good a mood. “Surely there’s enough reality shite on the telly that you could follow instead?”

“Your adventures are far more entertaining,” Liam shoots back, laughing. “Seriously, though.  You and Emma?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that another five emails have arrived in his in-box, two from irritatingly pedantic clients, three from even more pedantic opposing counsels.   _Oh, joy._ “Most decidedly.”

“Bloody hell.”  His brother whistles. “Must have been some Thanksgiving.”

Once again, his smile feels like it reaches from ear to ear. **“** A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“Oh, I _have_ to tell Annie that one.” More frantic keyboard sounds at the other end of the line, then he hears Liam laugh.  “My wife says to tell you that if you stuff this up between now and Christmas, you are no longer her brother-in-law.”

“I have _no_ intention of stuffing things up, as your lovely wife so elegantly put it. So I take it there are no objections to having _two_ houseguests for Christmas rather than just one?”

His brother’s laugh has a sinister tinge to it. “And miss out on seeing you having to do all those touristy things that you always claim are beneath you?  Not a chance.”

Killian opens his mouth to protest, then promptly shuts it again. His brother is right.  In the past, he avoids the usual tourist traps as much as possible, but if he were with Emma, even queuing for hours get on the bloody London Eye could seem appealing.  

Obviously, he thinks wryly, he’s even more in love than he realised.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” he tells his brother as another three emails pop up in his inbox. “Thanks very much for the invite. We’ll sort out the details later, yeah?”

“It will be very good to see you, little brother. It’s been too long.”

There’s not the faintest hint of teasing in Liam’s tone, and Killian’s throat tightens. “Aye, that is has.”  There have been times over the years when he has felt the weight of every single mile that stretches between Boston and London, and it’s heartening to be reminded that his brother misses him, too.  “And that’s _younger_ brother, if you don’t mind.”

“Wanker,” Liam pronounces cheerfully, and Killian grins.

“What can I say? I learned from the best.”

~*~

Sprawled on the long bench seat in the coffee shop, Emma admires her expertly painted toenails once more, then reaches for her cake fork. “This was a great idea.”

Eyeing the slab of lemon meringue pie in front of her with quiet glee, Mary Margaret smiles. “I thought we could both do with some time out.”

Emma digs her fork into her own dessert (tiramisu torte, as if she hasn’t had enough coffee today). “Life _has_ been kind of crazy lately.”

“That’s for sure.” Her friend is clearly enjoying a day untainted by morning sickness.  Emma’s never seen anyone so impressed by a single mouthful of cake. “Can you believe it will be December in a few days?”

“I know.” At the thought, Emma’s feet seem to shiver in their flip-flops.  Maybe it was silly to indulge in a pedicure when boot season is upon them, but then again, she _is_ sharing her bed with a man she suspects will be quite partial to scarlet toenails.  

Money well spent, if you ask her.

“Oh, we should talk about our Christmas plans,” Mary Margaret tells her cheerfully in between bites. ”I thought maybe we could all go tree-shopping, make a day of it.”

Emma swallows a hasty mouthful of tiramisu, along with a healthy dose of guilt.  Killian’s text telling her that he’d broken the news to Liam (and that the London Joneses were very much looking forward to spending some time with her) had arrived only minutes ago while her friend was in the bathroom.  She guesses now is as good a time as any to share the fact that the apartment will be short two inhabitants over the Christmas break. “That would be great, but-”

Her friend flashes her a smile of encouragement. “I know you don’t really get into Christmas, but it will be fun, I promise.”

Emma takes a deep breath. “Killian asked me to go home with him for Christmas.”

Mary Margaret blinks, looking faintly confused.  “But the two of you _are_ already home-” Comprehension dawns quickly, though, and Emma finds herself holding the deep breath she’d just taken. She’s more sure of Killian than she’s been of anything in her life, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t still want her best friend’s approval. “ _Oh_.”  The other woman’s smile is almost coy. “He’s taking you to England?”

Emma grins.  With everything still so fresh and newly decided, the words send a thrill of anticipation (and anxiety, she’s not going to lie) through her. “Yep.”

“You’re spending Christmas with his family?”  Mary Margaret’s green eyes widen. “That’s a big step.”

Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, Emma carves off another piece of cake with her fork.  “So is living together.”

“And sleeping together, I guess.”

Emma can’t help the smirk that curves her lips. “Not always.”

As expected, her friend’s high cheekbones turn pink at the veiled reference to the existence of one-night-stands.  “Well, I wouldn’t know much about that.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”  Emma waggles her cake fork in the air.  “You found your Prince Charming right off the bat.”

Her eyes misting over, Mary Margaret’s left hand drops to her stomach, smoothing over her non-existent bump.  “Believe me, I know how lucky I am.”

Emma stares at her. “Are you _crying_?”

“Of course not.” Her friend shakes her head, then dashes at her eyes with the heel of her palm.  “God, it’s like having the worst PMS ever, times infinity.”

Wincing at the thought, Emma hands Mary Margaret a fresh paper napkin.  “At least you’re not throwing up today,” she consoles, and the other woman hiccups with quiet laughter as she dabs her eyes with the napkin.

“Look at you, finding the silver lining.”

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Emma just shrugs. “I guess you’ve rubbed off on me.”

“Maybe.”  Mary Margaret beams at her, her face still flushed with laughter (and hiccups). “I suspect it’s not as much as _me_ as it is a certain other flatmate.”

Emma has the feeling that her smile is more than a match for Mary Margaret’s.  “I have to say, I always suspected as much, but he really is a weird mix of total optimist and complete drama queen.”

Her friend quirks a knowing eyebrow. “At least you’ll never be bored.”

Emma thinks of the last few days, how she’s felt more alive than she has in a very long time. “You know, I think you might be right.”

~*~

Domesticity.  

It’s such an ordinary term, meant to describe the most ordinary of situations, and Killian thinks it just might be his new favourite word.  

The instant he staggers through the door of the apartment just after seven, he feels the tension of the day drain out of him.  It could have something to do with the scent of garlic and basil in the air, but he suspects the sight of Emma curled up on the couch with a book is far more responsible for the sudden lightening of his spirits.  “Evening, Swan.”

Her face lights up. There’s no other way to describe it, and it makes his heart soar. Putting her book aside, she climbs off the couch and crosses the living room to meet him. “What time do you call this?” she asks teasingly as she lifts her face to his for a kiss.  “I hope you’re ready to eat, because the pregnant lady is _starving_.”

“You didn’t have to wait-”

This is all he manages to say before she’s kissing him, her mouth warm and soft on his, and his brain scrambles until all that’s left in his head and blood is her.  He hears his satchel drop to the floor with a muffled _wuff_ of leather, then her arms are around his neck and they’re kissing as though it’s been a year since they last touched each other.

The notion of food forgotten, he cradles the back of her head with one hand and slips the other beneath the hem of her sweater to stroke her back, tasting the sweet warmth of her mouth.  She makes a soft sound of pleasure that hums against his lips, pressing her hips into his with a teasing invitation that almost has him staggering backwards with the force of his longing.  

Lifting his head, he gives himself a mental shake, trying to break through the surface of the raw lust that’s blanketing his thoughts. It doesn’t help his vocabulary, though, and all he can manage is a shaky, “Wow.”

Her breath coming fast, Emma stares back at him with glittering eyes, her softly parted lips pink from their kiss. Holding his gaze with hers, she nudges his straining zipper with her hip, and he sucks in a sharp breath as she laughs softly.  “I guess that old thing about absence making the heart grow fonder really _is_ true.”

“There’s a reason they say clichés are based in truth, love.” He wants very much to adjust the suddenly uncomfortable fit of his trousers, but he fears the slightest touch in that particular area right now might only cause more problems.  “I must confess, I could definitely become accustomed to this kind of greeting every evening.”

She makes a scoffing sound.  “Oh, _please_.”  Sweeping her gaze pointedly downward to where he’s obviously still rather _flustered_ , for want of a better word, she flashes him a mischievous smile of challenge.” You couldn’t handle it.”

“Is that so?”  Emboldened by the knowledge that their other flatmates are safely ensconced in the kitchen, he slips his hand between them, letting his knuckles graze her breast.  Her pupils dilate in the same instant he feels the tight rise of her nipple react to his touch, and he returns her smile of challenge with interest. “Perhaps _you’re_ the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Something dark (and extremely promising) flashes in her eyes as she deliberately leans into his touch, the swell of her breast filling his palm.  When she puts her mouth to his ear, her breath hot against his skin, he starts to think that perhaps he will have to concede this point to her, because he is _not_ handling this in _any_ way, shape or form.  “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

He closes his eyes as her lips brush against his earlobe.  She is going to kill him before he’s even had the chance to take her on a real date, and while he’d die a happy man, it seems like a dreadful opportunity to waste.

Clearing his throat, he eases himself away from her, conscious of her smug grin as he picks up his satchel from the floor.  “If this is our Monday routine, love, I can’t _wait_ for Friday,” he tells her in what he hopes is his best devil-may-care voice, as if his bloody knees aren’t knocking and his zipper straining.  

“Speaking of the weekend-” She steps back too, putting some air between the, but her eyes never leave his. “You still want to drive your car to the beach and look at the stars and forget all about work for a few hours?”

His throat tightens. He’d voiced this rather wistful craving to her over a late night ‘tea and biscuits’ session months ago, when he’d been in the throes of a hellish week at work and she’d been teasing him about his choice of all-terrain vehicle. That she seems determined to make his wish a reality is both humbling and proof that he is indeed the luckiest man in Boston.  “Nothing would make me happier, Swan, but don’t you think we might be a little cold?”

She smiles at him, one hand coming up to tug on his tie. “I’ll let you borrow one of my beanies.”

“In that case, I would be delighted.”  

The sound of a saucepan lid clattering loudly (and pointedly) onto a hard surface comes from the direction of the kitchen, and they share a conspiratorial grin.  “I think mom and dad want us to join them for dinner,” Emma snickers as she threads her arm through his, and again his heart suddenly feels like it weighs less than a feather, because how is it possible that this is his life now?

“After you, milady.”

Much later that night (after they’ve defaulted to her bedroom once again), she trails one perfectly manicured foot along the length of his bare thigh, her scarlet red toes dipping between his legs with delicious intent.  While he’s still capable of speech, he tells her she should indulge in spa days as much as humanly possible, given the exceedingly pleasant after-effects, and her answering smile can only be described as wicked.  

“Now that,you _definitely_ couldn’t handle.”

~*~

Tuesday morning proves to be even more of a struggle than Monday morning, and it doesn’t get easier as the week progresses.  Emma doesn’t remember ever having this much trouble climbing out of bed when she was sharing it with Walsh.

Then again, he hardly ever stayed the night at her place, citing many different reasons why they should stay at his apartment instead, reasons that she barely remembers now.  

That part of her life seems a very long time ago now.

That’s not to say that she’s not reminded of Walsh every time she walks through the door of Midas Bonds because she is, but she knows that feeling will gradually fade.  At least now she doesn’t have to worry that every petty thief she goes after will show up having after work drinks with Walsh in a surveillance photograph.

The next four days pass in a blur, at least during business hours.  Every morning, she drops Killian at the train station, where he kisses her so thoroughly before climbing out of her car that she quickly learns to wait until she gets to the office before applying her lip gloss.  Every evening, they simply hang out with David and Mary Margaret, doing ordinary things like making dinner or sharing work-related gossip before squabbling over their Netflix choices.

In some ways, everything is just as it was before Thanksgiving.

In every way that counts, though, everything is different.  

Every evening, as she walks to her car tucked in the corner of Midas Bonds’ tiny parking lot, she feels a thrill of anticipation go through her at the mere thought of going home.  To her relief, Kathryn has no out-of-town work for her this week, and Emma’s able to achieve hours that could almost be considered normal. As a result she beats Killian home every night.  Mary Margaret’s teacher’s hours usually means that Emma gets to spend a quiet hour or so with her best friend before David swings through the door, brimming with news about his day, with Killian usually making it home by seven.

She had no idea that living with someone, even with a captive audience of two, could be this _easy_ , for want of a better word.  If she lets herself think about it too much, it’s hard to not feel angry at herself (and Killian too) for wasting so much time. She doesn’t want to be angry, or regret anything.  She’s spent too much of her life doing both those things, so much so that there were times when she thought she’d never feel any other way, and she’s _over_ it.

They sleep in her room every night.  He says he doesn’t mind and she believes him, but every night as they drift off to sleep, she thinks of February and what it will be like to be in a place of their own choosing, in a bedroom that’s _theirs_ rather than his or hers.

She can’t wait.

On Saturday morning, he makes good on their agreement.  After banning her from entering the kitchen, he tells her to rug up warmly and meet him by the front door at nine.  Mary Margaret and David sleep late, and Emma finds herself grinning as she creeps about the apartment, feeling like a kid sneaking out after curfew. Her grin widens when Killian finally appears, sauntering down the hallway wearing her favourite black woollen cap like he’s a freaking runway model and carrying a picnic basket she had no idea the household even owned.

“You ready, Swan?”

She kisses him, hard and quick, leaving them both breathless.  “You bet.”

It’s a brilliantly sunny day, but December has definitely arrived, heralded by a bite in the air that turns her nose pink even on the short walk to Killian’s car.   He offers her the keys, but she waves them away. It’s such a beautiful day that all she wants to do is watch the world go by.

It takes forty-five minutes to reach their destination, and they only fight over the music selection twice, a new record low for them. _Definitely enjoying some kind of honeymoon period here_ , she thinks wryly, then determinedly pushes the word _honeymoon_ out of her head, because she might have made a lot of progress over the last ten days, she’s _so_ not ready to think about that kind of thing.

The beach he’s chosen is more of a bay, but she doesn’t care about the lack of waves.  It’s not as they’re doing any body surfing today, after all. Some of Boston’s finest examples of classic architecture look over them as they pull up in the small parking lot, and Emma feels a twang of envy as she gazes at them.  She’s always loved the traditional houses in this area.  Too bad they’re completely out of her financial league, even as a rental.

Her longing look doesn’t go unnoticed by her companion, even as he busies himself grabbing the picnic basket from the back seat.  “You okay there, love?”

“I just love those houses.”  Hearing the wistful resentment in her voice, she gives him a rueful smile.  “Not that I’ll ever be able to afford one.”

“Never say never, Swan.”   He drapes a tartan blanket (again, something else she had no idea was in their apartment) over his shoulder like he’s an extra on an old Highlander movie, then slams the car door shut.   “You never know what the future holds.”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t hold a gigantic mortgage way out of my price tag, Jones,” she shoots back as she slides her sunglasses up her nose, but he just gives her a knowing smile that sends a delicate wave of butterflies winging across the pit of her stomach.

“Like I said, never say never.”   He crooks his elbow at her.  “Shall we?”

Killian had been right in his prediction that it would be cold, but there’s no wind and the sky and the water are almost as blue as his eyes.  Emma can definitely cope with the cold if it means lounging on a blanket on the sand, watching the horizon while an extremely attractive man produces a thermos of hot chocolate and homemade biscuits that he’d apparently created all by himself that morning.

“Are you kidding me with this?” She stares at the biscuits, which are still warm, if the condensation on the inside of the container’s lid is any clue.  “So this is why I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen this morning.”

He shrugs, but she sees the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he hands her a plastic mug of hot chocolate.  “No point doing things by halves.”

A rush of emotion that’s way too potent to be simply called _affection_ surges through her, making her pulse quicken and her eyes prickle, and the words are out of her mouth before she even realises she’s going to say them. “I _love_ you.”

He blinks, then gives her a slow smile, tiny lines crinkling at the corners at his bright blue eyes. It’s not as though she hasn’t said it before, but the heartfelt declaration seemed to take him by surprise.  “More than those lovely but expensive houses?”

Her pulse kicks it up another notch. “More than those expensive house.”

Putting his hand flat on the blanket next to her thigh, he leans closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “More than that hot chocolate?”

“That depends on how good it is,” she murmurs, holding his gaze with hers as she lifts the mug to her lips to take a sip.  He’s done a good job, getting it almost perfect (needs a little more sugar) and she licks her lips. “More than the hot chocolate.”

He leans closer, and she holds her breath, certain he’s going to kiss her.   He does, but only on the cheek, his lips warm against her cool skin, the scent of his aftershave teasing her nose.  “I’m glad to hear it.”  With that, he starts pulling out paper napkins and loading them up with warm biscuits, and Emma can’t help feeling as though he’s missed something.

As if feeling the weight of her gaze, he looks up, his expression a study in innocence. “Something wrong?”

She bites her lip. She’s pretty sure there’s no way to ask why someone didn’t return your _I love you_ without sounding like a clingy stalker-type girlfriend.  It’s not as though she doesn’t _know_ that he loves her. It’s just she’s not used to saying it, and she’s not sure how she feels about getting nothing back.  “Nothing’s wrong.”

One dark eyebrow arches, and she sees the gleam in his eyes.  “Oh, my darling Swan,” he _tsks_ at her, shaking his head. “You truly are an _appallingly_ shoddy liar when you’re off the clock.”  Before she can protest this unfair judgment, he curls his hand around her right one, the hand holding the mug of hot chocolate, and bends his head to hers. “I love you,” he tells her in a low, urgent voice that spikes her blood and makes her chest tighten. “I have loved you for a very long time, and I plan on loving you for a very long time to come.”

Emma closes her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her head, she thinks that maybe she should start keeping a tally of the number of times he’s left her speechless.   Right now, though, she’ll settle for being here with him on a cold, sunny beach, the scent of his aftershave mingling with hot chocolate and ocean air, his smiling mouth seeming to catch her one-word answer as she lifts her head to kiss him.  “Good.”

~*~


End file.
